


Heaven Sent

by Lenni51074



Series: Book/Movie Rewrites [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Avengers Modern Day AU, BFF Natasha Romanoff, Bartender Phil Coulson, Bucky Barnes Is a Good Bro, Clint Barton's kids are awesome, Clintasha - Freeform, Detective Sam Wilson, Ex-fiance Loki, F/M, I already know this so don't @ me, Implied Smut, Intern Peter Parker, Journalist Bucky Barnes, Language, Love Triangle, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, POV First Person, Priest Nick Fury, Priest Steve Rogers, Reader Has Issues, Reader doesn't know how to do feelings, Reader is hopeless, Reader is really good at self-sabotage, Reader needs a smack in the head, Romantic Comedy, Sarcasm is how the Reader hugs, Scott Lang is a shit-stirrer, Stan Lee Cameo, boss tony stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2020-09-06 19:28:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 54,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20296750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenni51074/pseuds/Lenni51074
Summary: Gorgeous Father Steve Rogers has asked you to develop an ad campaign to help bring more people into the Catholic faith. Being a confirmed atheist, you’d love to say no. But he’s a priest. An extremely handsome, sexy priest who uses the puppy-dog eyes to great advantage. God might strike you down if you say no.Then you commence an online “relationship”, for want of a better word, with Cameron Klein, an infuriating newspaper columnist who gets under your skin like nobody else ever has before.Just when you think life couldn’t get any more confusing, you meet the devastatingly good-looking Bucky Barnes, and your happily-single-and-ready-to-mingle life is thrown into chaos.And you start to wonder if maybe God is involving you in one huge cosmic joke…An Avengers-based reworking of the novel “Heaven” by Susi Rajah.NOTE: I do not own the novel “Heaven” upon which this story is based, nor do I own any of the Marvel characters.





	1. I Am Going To Heck In A Handbasket

**Author's Note:**

> If you are a devout Christian and likely to be offended by my portrayal of religion in a humorous light, please don’t read any further. This is meant to be light-hearted, tongue-in-cheek fun. I’m Christian and enjoyed writing it, but I know some people also take their religion far more seriously than I obviously do. It is not my intention to mock or offend, but I understand that this type of humour is also not everyone’s cup of tea.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’ve been single for a while, before commencing a somewhat unorthodox email relationship with a newspaper columnist. Life just gets weirder from there.
> 
> Especially when you discover that the advertising agency you work for wants you to manage an… interesting… potential new account.

It started out as your typical love story. Girl meets boy. She meets him again. And again. And again. And before you know it, we are heading into Serious Relationship territory. But, before we can get to the happy-ever-after that these kinds of stories usually tell us are inevitable, another girl-meets-boy story begins. Different girl. Same boy.

_This_ girl ended up being the usual kind of man-stealing female that these stories usually throw into the mix just for fun – huge boobs, short skirts, and a vocabulary made up almost entirely of monosyllables and breathy giggles. The kind of girl that guys who think with their crotch-brain believe is their perfect match, because _this_ kind of girl doesn’t require anything resembling intellectual stimulation or, heaven forbid, actual adult conversation at all. In fact, the less speaking this type of girl does, the better the boy likes it.

Then, unsurprisingly, I was given the totally unoriginal “It’s not you, it’s me” speech, and I actually breathed a sigh of relief that I had dodged a bullet by not ending up stuck with someone who was completely incapable of devising an original breakup excuse for me.

It was a few weeks before I met another guy. Perhaps _met_ is not entirely correct. More like I _discovered _him. Well, his newspaper column anyway. I read the column by one Cameron Klein whilst I was still smarting over being dumped for Trophy-Wife Barbie. Naturally, I was still in the “All men are bastards” phase that such a dumping usually inspires, and as I continued to read the preposterous piece, I knew categorically that Cameron Klein was not the kind of man that I would ever willingly be involved with, romantically speaking.

His column was the usual chauvinistic twaddle about how girls do much better academically than boys, because shockingly young girls are actually allowed – nay, even encouraged – to get an education these days and the poor old boys are left to suffer in their wake because educators are lavishing all of their attention on the fairer sex and what is to become of the menfolk of the future?

Piffle.

I was so incensed that I actually composed an email to Cameron – whilst at work - at the email address so handily provided under his name, suggesting that perhaps he could find a better use for his clearly limited education, such as reading about the women’s rights movement and the suffragettes, and endeavouring to perhaps _not_ act like an entitled douche-canoe just because he had a distinct advantage over half of the population simply by virtue of the fact that he was born with a penis.

I honestly didn’t expect any sort of response. After all, journalists probably cop all sorts of weird correspondence from the public. It’s not like they actually _read_ anything that the unwashed masses send in to them. 

Imagine my surprise, therefore, when I received a response less than twenty-four hours later. Cameron had actually replied within ten minutes, but I had already very bravely shut down my computer after contacting him in the vain hopes that by ignoring my inbox and going home for the day then there would be absolutely no chance of ever receiving a reply.

Cameron, with a surprisingly varied vocabulary, surmised that I was a crazy cat lady who had nothing better to do with her time but harangue poor beleaguered journalists who were just trying to make a living, and honestly what was my problem with the column, all of the evidence was right there, it’s not like he was making up statistics_ and for God’s sake did you even read it, woman? _But the real kicker was the post-script that he added, obviously as a hasty afterthought, inquiring politely as to whether I was so hideous that I couldn’t get a date and therefore I was so bitter about the world that I had to take it out on poor innocent people such as himself?

Naturally, I replied very maturely that I have a wonderful career and I don’t need a man to make me happy, and if I _did_ perchance ever decide to date someone it most certainly would not be some trumped-up newspaper columnist who appeared to have an inordinately high opinion of himself. Also, I’m a dog person, but since he evidently found cats so distasteful I was immediately going to the cat shelter to find the cattiest feline they had available because I’m not at all petty.

Cameron emailed back that it was obvious I was single, because my writing was that of a sexually frustrated woman but he knew somebody who could assist in that department if I was interested in that sort of thing.

I immediately sent back a reply suggesting that it sounded like he was trying to brag, which tends to be the default setting of men who are lacking in that department. He sent back a response, almost instantly, that he’d never had any complaints from anybody and that his current girlfriend was extremely satisfied, thank you very much.

Things kind of steamrollered along from there.

At least once a week, I’d receive an email from Cameron enquiring as to when I’d last had sex (clearly it hadn’t been this century, unlike him), and whether I was even remotely attractive (he was guessing I looked like a bridge troll given the lack of bedroom boogaloo), and that perhaps I was actually some deranged serial killer who chopped up the bodies of the men who had upset me and then buried them in the backyard _and oh God now you’re going to find me and kill me and please don’t hurt me, my mother would be devastated to lose her only son_.

I advised Cameron that I was quite happy with the way my life was going, as I wasn’t as sex-obsessed as he so clearly was. Also, my dog thinks I’m adorable and his opinion is the only one that matters. Finally, don’t be silly, I don’t chop up guys and bury them in my backyard. I stick them in the woodchipper (hey, _Fargo_ is a great movie, don’t judge me) and then use their remains as mulch in the community garden. I’m not a _complete_ amateur. 

This went on for well over a year. Without fail, I’d have at least one email a week from Cameron, and I’d reply in kind. I actually found myself looking forward to my regular dose of snark from him.

It was honestly the most intellectually stimulating relationship I’d ever had. And I’d never even seen the guy. For all I knew, he could be an overweight, forty-something mama’s boy who lived in the basement whilst subsisting on Doritos and Mountain Dew, and writing shitty newspaper columns in between boss battles in World of Warcraft. Or he might be a woman, masquerading as a man in order to actually be taken seriously in the world of journalism. Or worse, he was actually a twelve-year-old boy.

More than likely though, he’s a Serious Academic Type. Glasses, goatee, button-up shirt, a tie that has a double-Windsor knot because he’s far too uptight for just a single Windsor, always wears a blazer no matter how warm the weather is – or a cable-knit sweater that he wears knotted over his shoulders because _of course_ this guy is preppy – and he’d speak a great deal of intellectual wank.

He’s the kind of guy that I loathe.

So obviously, if this was your typical rom-com, we’d totally end up falling in love with each other because the more two people hate each other, the more apparent it is that they are actually one hundred percent destined to be together and we’d end up walking off into the sunset, hand-in-hand, heading towards our fairytale ending.

But this is not a rom-com. Cameron is not the frog that I kiss at the end of the story and then he magically turns into the handsome prince, ready to sweep me off my feet and carry me away to his castle in the sky. This is real life. And in reality, my life was actually pretty good.

Until I found God. Not that I was looking. In truth, He just kind of found me. And it all went downhill from there.

***********************************************

It started like any other Monday. That should probably tell you everything you need to know.

I’d arrived at my office a few minutes before 9am. I work at an advertising agency that is run by the genius that is Tony Stark. Seriously, the guy is an advertising guru. Need to sell ice to the eskimoes? Stark’s your man. He could probably convince the Pope to buy condoms. He’s _that _good. I’ve been blessed to have him as a mentor. A skirt-chasing, booze-swilling, not-taking-life-at-all-seriously mentor, but fantastic nonetheless. I’ve learned a great deal about what _not _to do, as well as what is effective, simply by observing Tony in action. He’s extremely impressive.

The fact that Tony was physically in the office before noon was a bit of a surprise. Usually he doesn’t come in until he’s slept off his hangover from the night before. So clearly, Something Important Was About To Happen.

Another indication that Big Things Were Afoot was the large tumbler of scotch that Tony was nursing. Apparently, whatever required his presence in the office at sparrow’s fart was something that he needed liquid fortification to deal with. He waved me into his office, and I shut the door behind me to give the illusion of privacy. The walls in our office are paper thin, and Tony has never really learned how to use his inside voice. 

“Where’s the kid?” asked Tony, referring to our perkily efficient intern Peter Parker.

“He’ll be around somewhere. I had an enormous pile of documents marked ‘URGENT’ in my in-tray this morning that were most definitely not there when I left the office on Friday.”  
  
“Why did we hire him again?”

I shrugged. “Because he’s your son?” Adopted son, but still. “He’s a damn good intern, Tony. The best we’ve had by a long shot. He keeps me supplied with coffee, which keeps me happy, which means I don’t kill anybody, which means no staff turnover. He’s boosted staff morale, as well as your profit margin, considerably.”

Tony waved his hand to shut me up. “Enough with the chit chat. I’ve called you in here because we have an urgent matter that only you can deal with.”  
  
“Me? Why me?”

“Because you are the one person in this office who is best equipped for dealing with a corporate image overhaul.”  
  
I narrowed my eyes at Tony. “Whose image am I overhauling?”  
  
“The Catholic Church.” Tony actually had the nerve to look completely serious when he uttered that sentence. No hint of teasing on his face at all. Surely the apocalypse was upon us. 

“Why can’t Bruce do it? He’s the senior advertising executive. Or even Rhodey. You know he’s great at spin.”  
  
“Because we’re not creating an ad campaign for them as such. Not yet, anyway. They’ve simply requested that we do some market research to determine what people think about the church, and religion in general. You’ve got a feel for gauging what consumers want.”  
  
I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “Consumers? Tony, people don’t go to church because they want to buy something.”  
  
“But that’s exactly it! Religion _is_ a product, and right now, people are not buying it. The Church wants to get an idea of _why_, so then maybe they can consider how to bring the sheep home to roost.” I was pretty sure that Tony was mixing his metaphors, but hey, if I was having scotch for breakfast I’m almost positive my mental faculties wouldn’t be entirely up to scratch either.

“Alright. So what sort of angle do we want to go for? Is this purely academic, or is the Church looking to get an answer as to how to sell religion effectively?”

“It’s entirely for research purposes at this stage. They may go for the full campaign to get butts on seats in the future, but I get the feeling that the Church execs find the thought of actually advertising more than slightly tacky.”

I sighed. “I’ve got a lot on my plate right now, Tony. There are a ton of projects I’m working on for my other clients.”  
  
“Give them to someone else. This is advertising. We don’t worry about the clients we already have. We need to focus on the clients we might potentially have in the future.” He looked at me over the top of his sunglasses. Tony was the only person I knew who could get away with wearing sunglasses indoors. It was as if he thought he was some sort of celebrity.

“I’m not going to be allowed to say no, am I?” I asked with resignation.

“Well, you can, but if you do then you can start looking for another job.”

“When do I start?”  
  
He grinned at me. “Yesterday.”

“What sort of budget do I have to work with?”

“As much as you want. The Catholic Church is loaded. They have more money than God. They _want_ to be saved, and you are just the girl to deliver them a miracle.” 

I sighed again. “I’m not going to Hell. I’m already there.”


	2. Single, But Not Quite Ready To Mingle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowded bar. Hot guy. What more could you ask for?

I met Bucky Barnes at the end of the same week that I was told I held the fate of God in my hands. He was out celebrating his thirtieth birthday at a micro-brewery that had recently opened.

The place was filled with the usual Friday night crowd. Guys dressed in jeans and leather jackets, trying to act like they weren’t checking out any of the women. Girls dressed in as little as they could wear in public without being arrested for public indecency, pretending that they weren’t desperately hoping that at least one moderately good-looking guy was ogling them.

Bucky was with a large, noisy group of people who I assume were his friends. I didn’t really notice him when I first walked in, because I was too busy trying to avoid being groped by drunk men or stepped on by party girls in seven-inch stilettos.

Almost as soon as I entered the place, I spotted my best friend Natasha and headed straight over to her. Nat is a gorgeous redhead whose mouth appears to be set in a permanent smirk. She comes across as completely intimidating, most likely because she looks like she knows a hundred different ways to kill you with a paperclip. In reality, she’s a total softie, but her chilly demeanour means she only gets hit on by the very bravest of men. Most guys just stare at her in awe, too scared to even breathe in her direction. Which means that most of the time, we can actually drink in peace.

“No second date with your model?” she asked, sipping her vodka and soda.

I made a face. “Thor looks great, but he speaks in monosyllables. Honestly, Clint’s kids have a more extensive vocabulary than he does. Plus, he spent more time admiring himself in the mirror than he did speaking to me. I’ve had a more intellectually stimulating conversation with a pot plant. Besides, I think I only agreed to date him because I knew it would annoy Loki.”  
  
Loki is my ex-fiancé. Thor is Loki’s older brother, and they have a love-hate relationship. Thor loves Loki, and Loki hates it.

“Alright, so no more models. Also, last time you vetoed actors and poets and hipsters and corporate yuppie types, so I’m not sure what’s left in this city for you.”  
  
I rolled my eyes. “Is it too much to ask for a nice, normal guy who doesn’t have his brains in his biceps?”  
  
Nat snorted into her drink. “Honey, we live in New York. We don’t do normal here.”

I’d been single for over a year, after breaking off my engagement with Loki when he decided that he preferred somebody with bigger boobs and a smaller vocabulary than I possessed. He was a banker-slash-wanker who I’d wasted far too much of my life on. Hey, I was young and convinced it was love, when in actual fact it was an astounding lack of healthy self-esteem on my part, and someone who thought he was God’s gift to everyone on the part of Loki.

Nat, on the other hand, is very happily engaged to an awesome guy named Clint Barton. He represented the USA at the Olympics a few years ago as an archer. Won a gold medal and everything. Nobody’s ever heard of him. But he’s lovely and fun and the complete opposite of ice-queen Natasha, so obviously they are perfect for each other.  
  
Naturally, since she’s now off the market, Nat has taken it upon herself to try and set me up with guys she thinks are suitable for me. Her success rate is abysmal. Zero for ten so far. She means well, but apart from Clint, she has terrible taste in men.

Anyway, I was attempting to write down a list of what I looked for in a man, and those traits which were most definitely undesirable, so that Nat had a better idea of what to keep an eye out for when searching for the perfect man for me. Unfortunately, the napkin I was writing on was slightly soggy as it had originally been resting under my drink, and the pen I was using therefore refused to cooperate. In frustration, I threw it over my shoulder and gave up.

Less than thirty seconds later, I was approached by quite possibly the most attractive man I have ever laid eyes upon. He was about six-foot tall, scorchingly sexy, with ice-blue eyes and a smirk that could probably set fire to the underwear of every lady within a ten-mile radius if he really wanted to. Dark, tousled hair, stubble over a jawline that was to-die-for, an adorable chin dimple, a broad chest and wide shoulders. He was wearing a red checked button-up shirt over a white t-shirt, and dark grey jeans that hugged an amazing looking ass. Talk about drop-dead sexy.

Then I noticed that he was holding the pen that I had just thrown away – the Stark Advertising logo staring back at me accusingly - in what was obviously a prosthetic arm, given that it appeared to be made entirely of metal. Could this guy _get_ any cooler?

“This wouldn’t happen to belong to one of you lovely ladies, would it?” Oh dear lord, _that voice._ Soft and slightly gruff, with a hint of a Brooklyn accent. Be still, my beating heart.

I pretended that I didn’t know he was speaking to us. Natasha very helpfully pointed directly to me. Traitor.

“It hit me in the head.” Sexy Eyes stared at me intently.  
  
“Really?” I asked innocently.

“Did you mean to throw it at me?” he asked.

“Not really. I was just trying to throw it as far away from me as possible. I didn’t mean to hit anybody with it.”

“You thought it was a good idea to throw a projectile in a crowded bar?”  
  
I shrugged. “I was annoyed with it. It wasn’t working and I just got mad, so I threw it.”

“Did you ever stop to think that you could have hurt someone with it? What if you’d hit me in the eye?”  
  
I looked at him. “But I _didn’t_ hit you in the eye. I’m sorry you got in the way of my pen. Maybe next time, you’ll take better note of what’s going on around you so that you can avoid being hit with flying objects.”

He gaped at me in disbelief. “Is that your idea of an apology?”  
  
I grinned. “Not really. But I promise I will not throw another pen at you for the rest of the night.”

He glared at me. “What about straws? You could take someone’s eye out with a straw.”  
  
I huffed. “Fine. I won’t throw straws at you either.”  
  
“Or peanuts?”  
  
“Alright mister, now you’re just being unreasonable. It’s a _bar._ You cannot honestly expect me to not throw peanuts at you.”  
  
He sighed. “It was worth a shot.”

It was at this point that Natasha remembered how to use her words. “Would you like to join us?” She moved her legs out of the way so that I couldn’t kick her under the table. The bitch laughed when I kicked the barstool instead, cursing under my breath as my toes crunched against the leg of the stool. “I’m Natasha Romanoff, by the way.”  
  
“Bucky Barnes.” He looked at me expectantly. I would have given him my name, but under the scrutiny of those amazing eyes I honestly didn’t remember that I actually _had_ a name. Words are my living, and right then I had none.

Natasha snorted again. She was doing that a lot tonight. “This is Y/N Y/L/N. She’s usually much more communicative.”

“Hi, Y/N,” Bucky grinned at me.

“Hi.” I mentally winced. I sounded like one of those breathy, giggly bimbos that I detested.

“Y/N is _very single_ at the moment. And she is most definitely free this weekend if you wanted to take her out somewhere. You know, like a date,” Nat supplied helpfully.  
  
I aimed another kick at her under the table.

“Ouch! What the hell did _I _do?” asked Bucky, rubbing his shin.

“I’m so sorry! That was meant for Natasha.” I glared at my friend, who had the gall to sit there looking innocently at me.

“I get the feeling you don’t like me,” Bucky complained. “All you’re doing is hurting me.”  
  
“Sorry. Do you need some ice? A band-aid? Should we amputate your leg to match your arm?”  
  
“I’m sure it will feel alright once you kiss it better,” he smirked again. That seemed to be his default expression.

I momentarily forgot how to breathe. This guy was looking at me like he wanted me for dessert. And he hadn’t even had the decency to buy me dinner first. I gulped. “I think I need another drink.”  
  
“No problem, doll.” Bucky raised his hand, and a waitress automatically materialised at his elbow. I narrowed my eyes. _Of course_ Bucky With The Good Hair would get instant attention. I could tap dance naked on top of the bar and still be ignored, but all this guy had to do was snap his fingers and people couldn’t wait to do his bidding.

Maybe he’s actually Lucifer.

Our drinks arrived, and Bucky and Nat spent the next few minutes discussing how much damage I might be able to inflict on someone if I had access to something more lethal than a pen. Nat promised to keep me away from sharp objects, much to Bucky’s apparent relief.

I didn’t join in the conversation, because I seemed to have forgotten exactly how words were supposed to work. I just kept sipping my drink, wondering what on earth I was doing. Here was an absolutely gorgeous specimen of manhood, who seemed perfectly capable of constructing entire sentences containing words of more than one syllable, and I could do nothing but stare at him dumbly.

Then, in a moment of inspiration, I very cleverly asked, “What on earth kind of a name is Bucky? Did your parents not like you or something?” 

He laughed. “It’s a nickname. I had huge buck teeth when I was a kid. Looked like a beaver. My best friend started calling me Bucky Beaver in third grade and it just kind of stuck.”

Suddenly, a stick-thin redhead – not natural, judging by the fluorescent hue – appeared at Bucky’s elbow, pouting outrageously. She sounded like she’d sucked the helium out of a balloon when she spoke. “Bucky-bear, there you are! I thought you’d left and I was getting lonely over there all by myself.”

She glanced disapprovingly at both myself and Nat, looking as if we offended her by simply being in the same city as her. “Everybody is here to celebrate your birthday, Bucky-bear. Why are you over here talking to these… people?” She said ‘people’ as if it were distasteful.

I rolled my eyes at Bucky. “Looks like you’re needed elsewhere, _Bucky-bear_.”

“Yeah, I should probably go.” He made absolutely no move to get out of his seat and rejoin his group of friends.

“Bucky-bear? Come on,” the bimboid tugged on his arm.

“I’ll be there in a minute, Dot. Just let me say goodbye first.” He smiled at her and she gave in, with obvious reluctance, sashaying back to the group with an exaggerated swing of her non-existent hips.

Bucky held out the pen I’d tossed away earlier. “I think this belongs to you.”  
  
I shook my head. “Keep it. I have tons of them at work. Consider it my birthday present to you.”

“Thanks. I’d better get back over there. It was nice meeting you, Y/N.” He grabbed one of my hands and pressed a kiss to the back of it. Then, before I could kickstart my brain again, he gave me a wink, put the pen in his pocket and then headed over to his friends.

“Well, he seemed nice. Hot, too. And he was totally checking you out.” Nat grinned before taking a sip of her drink.

“Pffft. As if. More than likely he was checking out your gorgeous self. Besides, Stick-Insect Barbie doesn’t seem inclined to share.”  
  
Nat shrugged. “I don’t think he’s into her. Not the way she wants him to be anyway.”

We both burst out laughing at that. It didn’t matter anyway. Cute or not, it was unlikely that I was ever going to see Bucky Barnes again. I didn’t have that kind of luck.


	3. Dear Lord, Why Must You Tempt Me So?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your new work partner just proves that if there is a God, He has a wicked sense of humour.

A lot of people hold the opinion that if you work in advertising, you must have sold your soul to the devil. That suits me just fine. I mean, the devil actually seems like he knows how to have a good time, you know what I mean?

God, on the other hand, seems like a bit of a stick-in-the-mud. Nice, obviously, otherwise people wouldn’t love Him so much. But why on earth would He ask people to worship Him, and increase His followers, by then asking the very men who represent Him here on Earth to give up sex forever? That just seems like cruel and unusual punishment to me. How does He expect to get more worshippers if the guys running the place aren’t actually allowed to provide Him with any?

Giving up sex voluntarily just seems crazy to me. Sex is great. Well, so I’ve heard anyway. It’s not like I’d really know, because most of the guys I’ve been with have been depressingly mediocre in that department. Loki was the best of the bunch by a long shot, and even he worried more about his own release than whether I’d attained sexual satisfaction or not. I’m still waiting for that one guy who can make me sing the _Hallelujah Chorus._ Maybe then I’ll become a true believer. Until then, I’ll remain firmly non-religious, thank you very much.

At any rate, I was in my office the following Monday, trying to think up ways to market the Church. And assisting me was Father Steve Rogers. He’d obtained an MBA from NYU before he’d decided that the priesthood was his true calling. It’s a real shame. Father Steve is sinfully good-looking. Six-foot-one, the shoulder-to-waist ratio of a Dorito, blond hair that is never out of place, with fan-fiction blue eyes framed by disgustingly long eyelashes. He has a traffic-stopping smile, with a hint of mischief behind it. He looks like he’d be a good guy to go drinking with, if a priest ever did that sort of thing, of course.

Honestly, if every priest looked as good as Father Steve, then the Catholic Church would have absolutely no problems with selling itself. The man is an Adonis. Sure, _that_ guy was the mortal lover of Aphrodite rather than a God himself, but still. Father Steve looks like he’s just stepped out of a Gucci advertisement. God definitely knew what He was doing when He created Father Steve Rogers, that’s for damn sure.

Gorgeous as he is, though, I didn’t really want to be stuck in an elevator with him. Not that there was anything wrong with his company. Far from it. It’s just that I didn’t really want to be stuck in an elevator with _anybody._ I hate elevators at the best of times. So of course it decided to stop working when Father Steve was in there with me. Just the two of us. It was obviously my punishment for being lazy and using the elevator rather than taking the stairs between the three floors of the high-rise that our advertising agency occupies. 

After more than thirty seconds of not moving, my usual coping mechanism of witty repartee fled the premises and I started to hyperventilate. Father Steve immediately started speaking to me in a soft, calm voice. His voice was deep and warm, and it was enormously comforting. “Just breathe, Y/N. Everything will be fine.”

I stared at the priest standing next to me. He was absolutely unflustered, as if it was a normal occurrence for him to be stuck in an elevator with an ever-so-slightly hysterical advertising agent. “What the hell should we do?”

Crap, I just blasphemed in front of a man of the cloth. I stood there, waiting to be struck by lightning.  
  
“Pray.” Father Steve noticed my panicked expression and grinned. “I’m joking. I’ll just make a phone call.” He picked up the emergency phone in the elevator and spoke to someone on the other end. “Hi, yes, we seem to be stuck between floors. If someone could attend to things, that would be appreciated. Thank you.”  
  
I was still slightly panicky, so Father Steve reached into his jacket and brought out a hip flask. I raised an eyebrow at him, and he shrugged. “Just a little something to calm you down.”  
  
I took a swig, wincing at the burn of the liquid as it made its way down my throat. “Holy shit, what the fuck was that?” I gasped.  
  
“Asgardian mead. I got it in Norway,” Father Steve replied, completely unfazed at the fact that I was swearing like a sailor in his presence. I suddenly remembered that he had mentioned that he’d been in the army prior to obtaining his degree and then answering God’s call, so that would explain the unruffled expression at my less than ladylike language.

I sat down on the floor of the elevator, and he sat down next to me. “Well, Father, while we’re stuck here, perhaps we should go over some of the finer points of Catholicism. You know, for research purposes.” 

“What would you like to know, my child? I am completely at your disposal.” I wasn’t entirely sure that a Catholic priest should have such a disarming sense of humour, but who was I to judge? And what was with the whole ‘my child’ business? I’m pretty sure Father Steve couldn’t have been more than five years older than me, at most.

“Can you explain the difference between Heaven and Hell? Like, how does God know who to send where?”

“Hell is for all eternity. Purgatory is only a temporary placement before entering Heaven. And nobody gets a free pass straight into Heaven. They have to do the hard yards first.”  
  
“How temporary is temporary?”

He paused to consider. “Well, it would depend on the severity of a person’s sins. It might be a century or two, or it could be even longer.”  
  
I gaped at him. “A hundred years doesn’t sound very temporary to me.”

Father Steve shrugged. “Well, if you have friends and family who can pray for you, it may assist with reducing the length of your suffering. The sooner a person repents of their sins and begs forgiveness, the sooner they can gain access to Heaven."

No wonder Catholics used to have so many children. All of those offspring praying for you would definitely lessen the length of time you spent in Purgatory.

“What about truly evil people? People so bad that they cannot possibly have any chance at redemption? Like terrorists or serial killers or people who talk during movies.”

“They still go to Purgatory first. They stay there much, much longer before making the permanent transition into Hell. But Purgatory ends for all souls on the Judgement Day." 

“What, you mean the apocalypse?”  
  
“Not exactly. But our beliefs of Heaven and Hell and Purgatory have changed over the centuries. We no longer believe in the whole fire and brimstone thing that was popular in the past. I blame Dante’s _Inferno_. That gave people the completely wrong idea about Hell.” Father Steve took another sip from his hip flask. How he was not rolling-on-the-floor drunk was beyond me. I’d had two sips and felt as if I was three sheets to the wind.

“So, what, Hell is no longer burning in the flames for all eternity?” I asked curiously.  
  
“No. It’s more the absence of God. Without His presence and His love, there is no joy. _That_ is the sort of suffering that souls will endure in Hell.”

“Huh. An eternity without joy sounds like torture. Or a lifelong existential crisis. Kind of like permanently being an angsty teenager.”  
  
“Exactly.”

I looked at Father Steve. “I think that it might be best not to mention the whole torture aspect of Purgatory to people. It might put them off. We’re trying to find a way to get people to embrace religion again, not scare them away.”

He smiled. “Well, this is why we’ve come to you. So that you can find a way to help people return to us.”  
  
I returned his smile. “I just hope I can help.”  
  
Father Steve placed a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure you can. I have faith in you.” He squeezed my shoulder. “And you won’t always be alone.”  
  
I gave him a puzzled frown. “I’m not alone. You’re here with me.”  
  
He laughed softly. “I don’t mean right at this moment. I mean in your life. I sense that you are lonely. There is someone out there for you, I can feel it. Let yourself be happy, Y/N. Happiness is not a sin.”  
  
Before I could ponder his cryptic message, the elevator started moving again. The doors opened on the floor of my office and I raced out thankfully, kissing the floor in gratitude. Father Steve followed at a much more leisurely pace.

“Well, it’s getting late. I should probably head home. It was lovely speaking with you, Y/N. I look forward to discussing your ideas in the near future.” Father Steve gave me a wink that could only be described as flirtatious, then headed out of the office.

Darcy Lewis, our Director of Business Strategy, was staring after him, a look of complete lust on her face. “Oh my God, he is _so hot!”_

“Down girl. He’s also a Catholic priest. No touchy.”

“What a waste,” Darcy pouted. I had to agree. It is desperately unfair that a man as beautiful as Father Steve is off limits. But hey, that’s what imaginations are for.

I am absolutely, categorically, one hundred percent without a doubt going to Hell.


	4. First Dates Never Go This Well. What’s The Catch?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Bucky get to know each other a little better.

Bucky had sent me a gorgeous bouquet of red roses at the agency – Darcy squealed at an ear-splitting decibel when she saw them – together with a card that read:

_Hey doll,_

_I’m taking you out to dinner as compensation for the head injury you caused to me at the bar the other night. Also, you left a hell of a bruise on my leg when you kicked me. If you say no, I may just have to charge you with assault and battery._

_Cheers, _ _Bucky Barnes_

_PS – I swear I’m not stalking you. The pen you attacked me with had the name and address of your office. So you were pretty easy to find. BB._

His phone number was underneath, so naturally I called him straight away and begged him not to turn me into a convicted felon over what was clearly just a simple misdemeanour, and really, was threatening a girl the only way he could get a date? He laughed and told me to dress casual, and to be ready by 7pm on Friday night.

Can you believe that there are women out there who won’t date a guy if they don’t like his car? Like, if the car doesn’t cost an absolute fortune, they aren’t interested. I think that’s stupid. If a guy has spent all of his money on his car, then he won’t have any left to spend on _you_. So you don’t go for a guy with a status symbol car. It’s just keeping up appearances, or overcompensating, and neither of those options are good in the long run.

When Bucky picked me up for our first date, he was extremely lucky that I didn’t base my opinion of people solely on their mode of transportation. Because I would have assumed that he was a trust fund brat. The guy turned up on a motorcycle. Not a cheap one, either. He was on a friggin’ Ducati SuperSport. It was beautiful. I had difficulty controlling the drool. It was not all from the bike, either.

Bucky was even more gorgeous than I remembered. He was in dark blue jeans, a soft grey shirt that complemented his blue-grey eyes, and a leather motorcycle jacket. He had on a pair of black combat boots that looked like they were good for kicking in the heads of those who pissed him off. He came over to me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “You look great, doll.”

I was wearing a pair of skinny jeans, together with my favourite top and a pair of ballet flats. Hey, the guy said casual, so casual was what he was getting.

“Ready to go, doll?” The old-fashioned term should have sounded cheesy, but in reality I found it quirky and charming.

“You bet.” He handed me a helmet, and I put it on before swinging myself onto the pillion seat of the motorcycle. “It’s been a couple of years since I’ve been on a bike.”  
  
“Well, hang on tight. I like to go fast.” I suspect he brought a motorcycle so he’d have an excuse to get me to hang onto him. Not that I minded one little bit. I’d dreamed about putting my hands on Bucky ever since I met him. Natasha was going to wet herself when she found out.

We ended up at a charming little Italian bistro. It was exactly the kind of place you’d expect to visit for a first date. Red-and-white checked tablecloths, candles in empty wine bottles, Dean Martin playing over the speakers. It was a total first date cliché and I fell in love with it immediately.

As soon as we sat down, Bucky ordered a bottle of sangiovese. The waiter returned a few minutes later and poured a small amount for Bucky to taste. After he’d nodded his approval, the waiter filled both glasses and left us to peruse the menus. 

“So, what are we going to do all night?” I asked.

Bucky looked at me. “Well, I don’t know about you, but usually on a first date, people ask each other questions and try to get to know the other person better.”  
  
“Well, I’ll have you know I’m terrible at first dates. So bad, as a matter of fact, that I haven’t been asked on a second date in well over twelve months. I’ve been single ever since I broke off my engagement last year. Maybe we should forget about the first date and pretend we’re on our third.”

He took a sip of his wine. “Sorry, doll. I’m kind of looking forward to the whole first date routine.”  
  
I grimaced. “OK. Lay it on me. What do you want to know?”  
  
“Alright. What do you do at Stark Advertising?”  
  
“I’m in the planning department. I discuss strategies with potential clients, and do market research for advertising campaigns and such. Extremely boring, but it pays well. So well, in fact, that it’s part of the reason I don’t get asked on second dates.”  
  
Bucky quirked an eyebrow at that. “Why?”  
  
“Well, Bucky, this may shock you to discover. But there are many, many men out there that find it personally offensive when a woman earns significantly more than they do. It makes their egos deflate. I assume it must also make their penises shrivel into oblivion, because the moment they find out how much I earn, they suddenly find urgent business that they need to attend to elsewhere and I never hear from them again. I earn more than most of the men I’ve dated.”

“The male ego is a fragile thing. We’re very delicate creatures,” he replied sardonically. “But I’m not bothered by how much a woman earns. I figure, if she’s getting paid a lot of money, then it’s because she works hard and therefore she deserves it.”  
  
“That makes a refreshing change, Bucky.”

Bucky divulged that he worked for a local TV station, doing research for the news department and the current affairs program. He hoped to actually work in front of the camera one day, but for now he was happy digging up dirt on dodgy businessmen and wannabe criminal overlords. I couldn’t believe he wasn’t on the news desk already. He was certainly beautiful enough to be on television.

The waiter came back to tell us the daily specials and provide his recommendations. Bucky decided to order the veal saltimbocca, while I chose the pasta with truffle butter and truffled egg yolk. Carbs be damned. A date is meant to be enjoyed.

“My turn to ask a question,” I said, looking across the table into Bucky’s extraordinary blue eyes. “What happened to your arm?”  
  
Bucky stared at his left arm, the metal of the prosthetic seeming to glow softly in the candlelight. He seemed more than a bit self-conscious about it, but I secretly thought it was pretty cool. Made him look like a total badass.

“I lost it in Afghanistan. I joined the army straight out of high school, did a couple of tours. My last one, I got hit by an IED. Woke up in the hospital minus my left arm. Got an honourable discharge and a sizeable military pension, and a couple of years ago I managed to qualify for a trial of a new type of prosthetic designed by Wakanda Tech. Lucky for me, it’s been pretty successful.”  
  
I squeezed the hand of his prosthetic. “I’m sorry to hear about your injury. But I think the metal arm is kind of cool.”  
  
He looked surprised. “Really?”  
  
I nodded. “Sure. It makes me feel like I’m on a date with the Terminator.”  
  
He rolled his eyes. “Like I’ve never heard _that_ before.” 

I giggled, then asked him another question. “Who was the girl you were with the other night? At the bar.”  
  
“Dot?”  
  
“That’s the one. Is she your girlfriend?”  
  
He narrowed his eyes. “If she was my girlfriend, do you think I’d be on a date with _you?”_  
  
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Would you?”  
  
He reached across the table and held my hand with his prosthetic one. “We… used to be involved. We were together for about two years, but I ended things about a month ago.”

“Why?”  
  
“A lot of reasons.”  
  
“Name two.” 

He considered briefly before answering. “I want to settle down and have a family. She doesn’t. We’re at different points in our life.”  
  
“That’s only one reason.”  
  
Bucky looked at me, before sighing. “She thought I was cheating on her.”  
  
“Were you?”  
  
“Not technically.”

I frowned. “What the hell does that mean? Either you were cheating on her or you weren’t.”  
  
“It means that I wasn’t _physically_ cheating on Dot. I never slept with anybody else while I was with her.”

“I sense a ‘but’ coming up." 

“But… in a way, there _was_ somebody else that I was interested in. I thought that maybe I was starting to develop feelings for them. It was… sort of a work colleague. So I ended things with Dot to try and see if things would develop with this other person.”  
  
“And did they?”  
  
He shook his head. “I never actually pursued it any further. But it wasn’t fair to Dot to stay with her when my heart wasn’t with her anymore.”

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Like I said, I’m not very good at the first date thing.”  
  
He grinned. “Lucky this is our third date then, doll.”

***********************************************

After dinner we ended up at a bar. I assume it was a college bar, because it was full of preppy looking guys in their early twenties who were all obviously named obnoxious things like Chad or Trey or Preston.

“So, was I about to divulge my religious beliefs or how many sexual partners I’ve had?” Bucky asked as he handed me yet another espresso martini. I’d have to stop after this one. If I had anything else to drink I wouldn’t be able to hang onto him when he took me home. He slung an arm around my waist and nuzzled his nose into my hair.

_Affection. Disgusting. Give me more of it._

“Did you just squeeze my ass?” I asked him.

“Yep.” He did it again, grinning at me.

“I’m not real good with being groped in public.”  
  
“We could go somewhere more private if you really want,” he whispered, his lips grazing the shell of my ear and making me think things that were highly inappropriate for a first date.  
  
“Forget it, Bucky. I’m not sleeping with you.”  
  
He gasped in mock horror. “What? I bought you dinner and drinks, and now you refuse to put out? I want my money back.”

“Why do guys always seem to think that if they buy a woman dinner, then she is obligated to sleep with them?” I asked him with an eyeroll so dramatic I nearly saw my brain.  
  
He shrugged. “Because that’s what usually happens, I guess.”

I snorted. “Well, not with me. A guy has to earn the right to sleep with me.”  
  
“Right. So, when _do_ you think you’ll sleep with me?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe next time. Maybe never. It depends on how much of an asshole you are.”  
  
He looked hurt. “I’m not an asshole.”

“Every asshole I’ve ever dated has said the exact same thing.”

“Huh.” 

“Tell me honestly. What would you think of a woman who was willing to sleep with you on the first date?” I took a sip of my martini.

“Honestly, I don’t think there would be a whole lot of thinking involved.”

I smacked Bucky’s non-metal arm. “What about if she waited until the customary third date?”  
  
He looked shocked. “It’s customary to have sex on the third date? Man, I need to date more.”

“What if it was me? If we had sex right now, would you think less of me?” I demanded.

Bucky put his drink down and looked at me. “I think it would be better to wait. Having sex with me on the first date would be a terrible idea.”

“Why?”  
  
“Because I’d end up respecting you a lot less than I do right now. It would make me less likely to want to see you again.”

I glared at him. “Are you kidding me? _You’d _be sleeping with _me_ on the first date, too, you know! What’s with the double standard?”

Another shrug. “I guess I just don’t like things that come too easily. I like to have to put in a bit of effort. It makes me appreciate them more. Plus, I’m a guy. Nobody cares if we get laid on the first date or not. In fact, we’re considered a disappointment to males everywhere if we _don’t_ get some bedroom action on the first date.”

“Oh my God. I cannot believe you are perpetuating this prehistoric stereotype. I can’t let you get away with this.” I drained my drink. “That does it. I _have _to sleep with you now. You give me no choice.”

“Wait, what?” Bucky stared at me with a perplexed expression on his handsome face.  
  
“Bucky, I have to fight this stupid double standard about dating. Really, I’m doing this for women everywhere. Also, I’m pretty sure some doomsday cult has said that the world will end this weekend and I don’t want to take the chance that I will never have sex again before that happens. So now you just have to decide whether we go to your place or mine.”  
  
“My place is closer.” He grabbed my hand and dragged me out of the bar.

I did my bit for equality three times that night.


	5. I’m Not Cheap, I’m Value For Money

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after the night before…

When Bucky said that his place was closer to the bar last night, he wasn’t kidding. He lived three streets away from me. We were practically next door neighbours. I’ve never dated somebody who lived that close to me. Usually they lived at least a suburb away. This had disaster written all over it.

“Well, this could turn into all kinds of awkward if we have a nasty break-up. Maybe we should just call it quits now so it doesn’t get horrible when we inevitably run into each other again,” I said as I got dressed.

“We’ve lived this close to each other for ages and never bumped into one another before,” Bucky responded, heading into the kitchen to make us both coffee.

“True, but we didn’t know each other before. Now it’s just prolonging the agony,” I retorted.

“Doll, you’re writing this relationship off before it even has a chance to move past the first date. I think you’re jumping the gun just a tiny bit.” He wrapped his arms around me and kissed the back of my neck. It was all snuggly and cosy and made me think that he might just be perfect boyfriend material.

Clearly, I was still drunk from last night.

Looking in his fridge, I declared that there was absolutely nothing to eat. “I have stuff at my place. Why don’t I make you breakfast?”  
  
“That sounds great, doll! I’ll just grab my jacket,” he said, picking up the keys to his motorcycle even as he headed towards the door.

I stood there, dumbfounded. This was not the way it was supposed to go. We’d slept together, sure, but he wasn’t meant to actually _accept _my breakfast invitation. He was supposed to politely decline the offer, which was only made out of sheer gratitude for the mind-blowingly spectacular sex the night before, and then I could be on my merry way. Didn’t this guy know _anything?_

Anyway, I gave him the directions to my brownstone, and we rode there in slightly uncomfortable silence. I was greeted by my pitbull, Barkley, as soon as I opened the door. Slobbery dog kisses are always welcome. Ruffling his ears, I crooned, “Good morning, my handsome boy. Who’s the goodest doggo in the whole wide world?”

Barkley immediately went to Bucky, sniffing him suspiciously. Bucky held out his hand for my dog to inspect him, and after about two seconds Barkley launched himself at Bucky, knocking him to the floor and slobbering all over his face, while Bucky laughingly tried to escape. I was pleasantly surprised. Barkley doesn’t usually like strangers. He’d absolutely detested Loki. That should have been a clue that he was not husband material. Dogs always know who the best people are.

Bucky sighed appreciatively when I slid a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him. The way he devoured them, you’d think the poor man had never seen food before. Or else he’d forgotten how to cook because Silicone Dot had been able to survive on fresh air and sunshine so he’d never had to bother about mundane things like food.

To show how much he appreciated breakfast, Bucky kissed me. Rather enthusiastically. I was just beginning to think that perhaps a repeat of last night’s performance might not be a bad idea, when my phone rang.

It was Nat. “You’re still coming over this morning, aren’t you?”  
  
Brain blank. Did we have plans? “Uh… Sure. What time do you need me there?”  
  
“In about an hour? Oh, don’t forget to pick up the wings on your way.”  
  
“No problem. See you then.” I ended the call, staring at the phone. “What the fuck does she need me to get wings for?” I asked myself, racking my brain.

“Chicken wings? Buffalo wings? Butterfly wings?” Bucky asked. Totally unhelpful.

A lightbulb went off in my head. “Fairy wings! Shit! It’s Lila’s birthday.”  
  
Bucky stared at me in confusion. “Who’s Lila and why does she need fairy wings?”  
  
“Lila is Natasha’s stepdaughter. Well, soon-to-be stepdaughter. Nat’s fiancé, Clint, is Lila’s dad. Nat roped me into being the birthday fairy. Sorry, Bucky, I’ve got to run.”  
  
“Oh, no, doll. If you’re getting dressed up as a fairy, I’m tagging along. This I have got to see.”

I scowled at him, but didn’t argue as he followed me towards my car.

***********************************************

We arrived at Clint and Nat’s place to only mild chaos. Clint’s house is enormous. His first wife, Laura, had made a fortune as a Tupperware consultant, and Clint hadn’t done too badly from some sponsorship deals he’d signed during his archery days, so they’d bought the biggest, gaudiest house they could afford.

Laura had passed away a couple of years ago, not long after giving birth to their third child, leaving Clint as a single father of three small children under the age of five. Then along came Nat and hey, presto, awesome nearly-instant-stepmother to the rescue.

Nat was already nursing a vodka and soda, which gave me an indication of just how well her morning had gone so far. I steered Bucky clear of her until we could help Clint get things back under control. There were three ponies, each spray-painted in a riot of rainbow colours, with unicorn horns stuck to their heads, blissfully munching on the back lawn. I manoeuvred Bucky through the dozens of piñatas, balloons and streamers adorning the patio, even whilst I gazed longingly at the bouncy castle. I was totally going to get on that once all the children had gone home. You’re never too old for a bouncy castle. Age restrictions be damned.

“Clint, why on earth have you hired a caterer when you have a live-in chef?”  
  
The sandy-haired man rolled his eyes and shrugged, whilst attempting to juggle both two-year-old Nathaniel and a plate of canapes. “Lila’s friend’s mother spent over two grand on her birthday party, and she didn’t even have pony rides. Therefore, I am contractually obliged to spend at least _three_ thousand dollars on Lila’s birthday party, or risk her being a social pariah for the remainder of her school days.”

“What happened to the good ol’ days of cupcakes and Pin the Tail on the Donkey?” I asked, grabbing Nathaniel from Clint so that he could balance the food more easily. Nathaniel snuggled into me and I pressed a kiss to the top of his head.  
  
“Long gone, sweetheart. Nowadays, it’s go into debt or be a social outcast. It’s not worth the tears. Trust me.”

At that moment, Lila and Cooper came running into the kitchen, skidding to a stop when they noticed the strange man standing in the kitchen.

“Hi, Y/N. Who’s this?” seven-year-old Cooper asked, pointing at Bucky. The kid has all the subtlety of a brick to the face. I solemnly made the introductions. Bucky just as solemnly shook Cooper’s hand while the boy inspected him critically from head to toe. “Why do you have a metal arm?”  
  
“I’m really a cyborg. I’m on a mission to take over the world for my robot overlords,” Bucky deadpanned. Cooper nodded as if this was a perfectly acceptable response.  
  
“He looks like a Disney prince. Are you gonna marry him?” asked Lila, smiling winsomely at Bucky. Never backwards at coming forward, that is Lila Barton. At only five years old, she could flirt with the best of them.

“Do _you_ think I should marry Y/N?” Bucky asked her seriously.

“Do you have a house and a car?” Lila queried.  
  
“I have an apartment instead of a house, but I have a motorcycle as well as a car.”

“What about a dog?” demanded Cooper.

Bucky shook his head sadly. “I don’t have a dog, but I’d love one. I really like Y/N’s dog. Do I need to get one of my own if I want to marry her?”

Nods from both of the imps. “If you get a dog then you can marry her,” Lila informed him solemnly.

“Wait a minute, do _I _get any say in this?” I asked indignantly.

“Y/N, you’re really old. At your age, you need to take what you can get,” Cooper stated seriously. 

Bucky snorted softly. “How old _is _Y/N?”  
  
“Oh, really old. Like, at least eighteen or nineteen,” said Lila. _Thanks for shaving ten years off my age, Lila. _There’s a reason she’s my favourite of the Barton children.

I pointed to Bucky. “How old do you think Bucky is?”

Cooper stared at him, contemplating. “At least forty-three. Or maybe fifty-seven.”

Bucky looked outraged. I made a mental note to slip Cooper twenty bucks later. 

***********************************************

We managed to survive the party with relatively little drama. Bucky had been stunned that most of the mothers looked almost identical. “They all look like Stepford Wives,” he muttered. Ah, upper class New York society women. They are a plastic surgeon’s dream come true.

Once all the munchkins were sent on their way full of sugar and cake, and the Barton children were safely ensconced upstairs to nap, we sat on the patio, drinking the champagne that Clint had decided was absolutely necessary in order for the adults to cope with the mass of children swarming underfoot. I gratefully tore off the fairy wings that I had been forced to wear for the party, and guzzled the glass of bubbly that was handed to me.

Nat had seemed stunned to see Bucky arriving with me earlier that morning. She looked at me incredulously. “Let me get this straight. Despite what I have told you on numerous occasions, you slept with him on the first date? Have I taught you nothing?”

“To be fair, he tricked me. Used reverse psychology and everything. He was extremely sneaky. Basically, he told me that I _had _to sleep with him because he bought dinner for me.”

“You said that? And it actually worked?” Clint looked impressed.

“I think it was something along those lines,” Bucky admitted.  
  
“Well done, man.” Clint and Bucky grinned at each other.

“How much did you spend?” Nat demanded of Bucky.

“About a hundred and fifty bucks.”  
  
She shook her head. “You sold out cheap, Y/N. I’m disappointed in you.”  
  
“He sent me a huge bunch of roses too. Don’t forget to factor the cost of them as well. Plus, he bought drinks at the bar afterward.” I looked at Bucky speculatively. “So that’s got to be close to the four hundred dollar mark.”

“Wait a minute, why does the guy always have to foot the bill?” Clint asked.  
  
“He doesn’t. I didn’t force him to pay, he offered. Besides, you can’t claim a double standard about the guy having to pay for dinner, and then judge me for sleeping with him on the first date without holding him to the exact same standard.” I glared at Clint.  
  
“Yeah, but he scored,” said Clint, giving Bucky a high-five.

“So did I! Why am _I _considered a slut for sleeping with him on the first date, but he’s treated like the latest inductee into the Stud Hall of Fame? It’s so hypocritical. If guys are going to judge women for sleeping with them on the first date, then men shouldn’t sleep with them on the first date.”  
  
There was a moment’s silence.

“So,” Bucky smirked, “you think I’m a stud?”

“Really? _That’s_ what you took away from that?” I punched his flesh arm, causing his smirk to widen to Cheshire Cat proportions.

Eventually, Nat decreed that Bucky should have spent between five and seven hundred dollars in order for it to have been acceptable for me to have given up the goods on the first date. Clint very wisely kept his mouth shut, knowing that silence was as good as assent and that this was likely to get him laid in the near future.

Bucky, displaying the wisdom of a man who is hoping to have sex again soon with the same woman, also declined to comment. Brains _and_ beauty. It was like the guy had won some sort of genetic lottery.


	6. To Market, To Market, To Buy Ourselves Some New Worshippers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The marketing research for the Catholic Church campaign gets underway. Your assistants don't really do very much assisting.

To: Cameron.Klein@brooklynbulletin.com

Reply to: y/n_planning@starkadvertising.com

_Dear Cameron,_

_I’ve just realised that, after nearly fifteen months of fairly regular correspondence, you have yet to reply to either of my previous two emails. At first I assumed that perhaps you were dead, but then I noticed that you’d written yet another chauvinistic column and therefore reached the conclusion that you were avoiding me._

_Unacceptable. I haven’t insulted you for at least a month now. At least, no new insults as far as I’m aware._

_Therefore, I can only assume that one of the following has occurred:_

  1. _You have finally realised that you are no match for my intellect, and have therefore gracefully bowed out of the battle of wits as you are significantly unarmed;_
  2. _Your girlfriend – assuming you are still with said angel – discovered our correspondence and has demanded that you cease communicating with me immediately;_
  3. _You believe the latest doomsday cult’s predictions that the end of the world was nigh and are currently holed up in a bunker somewhere in order to avoid the worst of the fallout;_
  4. _You have found God and become a monk who is required to take a vow of silence;_
  5. _You actually are dead, and your previous column was printed posthumously._

_If the last is correct, then you are forgiven for your lack of communication. If not, then you leave me no choice but to curse your name to the four winds and hope you never know peace again._

_Yours sincerely, _

_Y/N_

***********************************************

Advertising for the Catholic church is a really, really bad idea. Everybody in advertising knows that sex sells. The problem is that, as far as the Catholic church is concerned, sex is a no-go area unless you are invested in breeding future Catholics. Nothing about the Catholic church is remotely sexy. With the exception of Father Steve Rogers, and we are _most definitely not going to go there!_

To say that I had my work cut out for me was an understatement.

Then I had a revelation. Women make up fifty-one percent of the population, and make the majority of purchasing decisions in households. The Catholic church has an image problem. If you want to increase your brand appeal, you need to make yourself attractive to women. Bring the women into the church, and the men will almost certainly follow. More than likely because they will be dragged along by their ears, but nevertheless, they will come if they are told to by their other halves.

Therefore, I had ordered my assistant, Scott, to find suitable groups of women for our focus groups. The bastard had taken great delight in rounding up as many Botox-injected, calorie deficient, air-headed Manhattan socialites as he could find.

I looked at the notes I’d been given. “I thought I was supposed to be consulting the seniors group.”

Our intern Peter nodded, his Gryffindor tie slightly askew and therefore detracting slightly from his otherwise professional demeanour. “That _is_ the seniors group.”

“Are you sure?” None of these women looked like they were over the age of forty, but Scott had indicated that they were all in the over-sixty age bracket. “Peter, keep an eye on them while I go confirm with Scott that this is the group I’m meant to be meeting with.”

Peter stared at me with terror-filled eyes. “Don’t make me go in there alone, Y/N! They looked at me like they wanted to eat me.”  
  
That confirmed it for me. Those women were most definitely the seniors. “Peter, they probably _did_ want to eat you. You are just the kind of tasty little morsel that women like them relish.”

“What are you talking about, Y/N?” he asked in a horrified whisper.

Peter Parker is a thousand kinds of adorable. A mop of curly brown hair, big brown puppy dog eyes, all youthful enthusiasm and bubbly personality mixed with an expression of perpetual confusion. He’s a cougar’s wet dream.

“Peter, those women think you are a snack. A perfectly wholesome, delicious little snack that they would have absolutely no problem sinking their teeth into before dinner. I wouldn’t be surprised if you get at least three offers to be a toy-boy before the day is over.”  
  
He gulped. “What?” he squeaked.

I patted his cheek. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from the scary old cougars.”  
  
“If they’re old enough to be my grandmother, they aren’t cougars anymore, they’re vultures. I always thought cougars would be closer to your age,” Peter said.

“Should I be offended that you find me old enough to be a cougar when I’m not even thirty yet?” I’m only a few years older than Peter, so I was pretty sure I _should_ be offended.

He grinned. “I’m only twenty. You’re definitely cougar territory for me.” 

Luckily, Scott sauntered past just at that moment, thus saving me from further embarrassment from my intern. His t-shirt bore the slogan _People – not a fan._ I grabbed him by the ear, ignoring his howl of protest. “Scott Lang! Where on earth did you find all of these women?”  
  
He chuckled, his hazel eyes sparkling with undisguised glee. “They were all outside the same plastic surgeon’s office. Can you believe it? It was like a sign from above.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“Oh, come on, Y/N. They meet the criteria of the focus group you wanted. Right age group, right income bracket, allegedly they all go to church every Sunday.”

I looked at him sceptically. “Are you sure they all go to church? Usually women that rich worship at the altar of Saks Fifth Avenue or Tiffany’s.”

Scott snorted. “If you can label God as a couture brand, these women will be falling over themselves to buy whatever He’s selling. And if you can get rich white women to buy God, the hordes of the great unwashed will surely follow. I mean, if we could get Kim Kardashian on board then there’d be a stampede at the next Sunday service. People would buy haemorrhoid cream if Kimmy K was selling it.”

“How the hell did you manage to get any of these women to admit that they were over sixty?”  
  
Scott grinned at me. “I told them they would be paid for their time.”  
  
I rolled my eyes. “Why do rich white people always want free money? It’s not like they don’t already have enough of it.” I looked at the old biddies through the one-way mirror. “Well, I suppose we’d better get in there.”

As Scott and I headed in there, I noticed that Peter was hovering extremely close behind me, almost cowering at my back. “Pete, what on earth are you doing?”

“Protecting your flank, Y/N,” he whispered fearfully.  
  
“Peter, _my _flank is not the one that is going to need protecting from these silly old bats. Why don’t you head out to the safety of the video room and make sure everything is recorded properly?”  
  
He threw me a grateful look. “Thanks, Y/N.” The poor boy couldn’t escape quickly enough.

Scott and I spent the next two hours questioning the Botox Brigade, trying to confirm that they would in fact buy God, religion, and the obligatory holy steak knives that we were prepared to offer them.

One Snooty Sally recommended that every church come with a five-star rating, “like a Michelin rating. We do that for restaurants. Churches should do that too. That way we have an idea of what we are getting when we walk in there.” I had the feeling she read every single Yelp review of any establishment that she set foot in.

Another Geriatric Gertie looked at me down her surgically-altered nose. “Or perhaps a lifetime warranty. A guarantee of sorts, that if you attend church regularly, then you gain automatic entry into Heaven.”  
  
I had it on good authority from Father Steve that Heaven didn’t work that way, but I had the distinct impression that these women would most definitely not want to hear that. What was the point of a lifetime of half-hearted religious servitude if you didn’t get a reward at the end of it?

Scott asked another question. “How would you describe your relationship with God? Is He a friend, someone you turn to in a time of crisis? Or would you say that He’s more of an acquaintance? Perhaps you think of Him as the man in charge of all things.”  
  
The old darlings pondered, then declared that God was the ultimate party host, and that He would ensure that only the _right sort_ of people entered Heaven (i.e. rich white folks), and that the _wrong sort_ of people (i.e. everybody else) went to _The Other Place._

I turned back to the group. “We just have one last exercise.” Pointing to the large piece of white cardboard on an easel to my left, I said, “This is Heaven.” Indicating the piece of card on my right, “And this is Hell.”

Scott dumped an armful of glossy magazines in front of the women, together with glue sticks and scissors. They were safety scissors, just in case they didn’t know how to use real ones because let’s face it, these women probably had people who did all their cutting and pasting for them.

“Please go through these magazines, and cut out three or four pictures which you feel indicate Heaven, and three or four which represent your idea of Hell. Then, glue them to these pieces of card as appropriate.”

At the end of the session, we knew what the Real Housewives of Manhattan imagined Heaven looked like. Heaven was black-tie party central. Lots of Cristal champagne, tropical over-water bungalows, acres and acres of glittering jewels, Versace clothing, Coach handbags, and guys who looked like either George Clooney or Ryan Gosling.  
  
Hell featured minivans, public schools, frozen dinners, chainstore clothing and late night talk show hosts.

If there really was a God, I found myself praying that the bouncers in Heaven wouldn’t let any of these women through the barrier ropes.


	7. Drinking At A Bar Is Cheaper Than Therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Nat have a heart-to-heart, and Father Steve makes some observations that hit a little too close to home.

Nat and I were at a bar, where the majority of the clientele were men in the middle of a Mid-Life Crisis (MLCTM). MLC bars are great. The kind of man who frequents an MLC bar is usually rich, white, and trying to determine whether he should divorce Wife Number Three and move onto Wife Number Four, or if he should just continue bonking the nanny in secret until Wifey inevitably finds out and wipes him out financially.

If a woman in her mid-twenties to early-thirties plays her cards right, she will never have to pay for a drink in an MLC bar. Men in the midst of a mid-life crisis will throw extortionate amounts of money at young women in an MLC bar in the vain hopes that their fat wallets will more than compensate for their long-gone youth and distinctly boring personalities.

As Nat and I ordered our drinks, we noticed three typical mid-life crisis types propping up the bar and drooling in our direction. It was still fairly early, so it was slim pickings at this time of the day. The bartender handed us our dirty martinis and we made our way to a table.

Nat stared at me. “So, what’s the problem?”  
  
“Why do you think I have a problem? I can’t just have a drink with my best friend?”  
  
She laughed, a rich, throaty sound that has turned many a man (and more than a few women) into a puddle of mush. “Sweetie, it’s the middle of the week, and we’re at an MLC bar. If you _didn’t_ have a problem, you would have just come over to my place to knock back a few beers.” She took a sip of her martini. “I’m guessing it’s about Bucky.”

“What makes you say that?”

Natasha gave me The Look. “Several reasons. You called me earlier today saying that you need to discuss something urgently. You’ve spent the past few weeks interviewing rich white folks about religion. You work way too hard for a man who doesn’t truly appreciate everything you do for him. You don’t have a life outside of work unless I drag you somewhere. You think alcohol can solve all of your problems – not that you’re orphan Annie there. You haven’t had a successful relationship since you broke up with Loki the Loser. And in spite of all of this, without any actual effort on your part, you have somehow managed to score yourself a nice, intelligent, sweet, down-to-earth, drop-dead gorgeous man who seems to be completely smitten with you. Therefore, it’s obvious that the problem is Bucky.”  
  
Dammit, I need to find a new best friend. Someone who doesn’t know me so well. Preferably someone who doesn’t really know me at all.

“So what exactly is the problem?” she asked. “Does he have a thing for wearing women’s underwear? Oedipus complex? Picks his nose and eats it?”  
  
I pulled a face. “_Ew._ No, nothing like that.” 

“Lacking in the trouser department?” she asked sympathetically.

“Oh, lord no! Definitely no complaints there.” Bucky is like a fucking marble Renaissance statue brought to life. He has an _amazing_ body. And absolutely no issues about size. Or skill. The guy is a fucking magician in bed.

Nat pursed her lips. “The kids liked him. So did Clint. But that’s not really a surprise, given that they like most people. Although they didn’t like Loki, so that should really have been a warning sign for both of us.”  
  
“Barkley likes him too. Dogs are a pretty good judge of character, I suppose.”

“So... the problem with Bucky is that there is no problem?”

I frowned in consternation. “Come again?”

“It’s simple. Every guy you’ve been with to date has had some sort of problem. Daddy issues, mommy issues, commitment issues, thinking that maybe they might actually be gay instead of straight… The fact that Bucky doesn’t seem to have any of these issues is confusing for you, and you automatically think that it’s a problem.”

I sipped my drink. “How do I know that one of those issues won’t rear its ugly head further down the track? He might leave me for some stick-thin waiflet if the opportunity presents itself.”  
  
Nat snorted. “He _had_ a stick-thin waiflet in that bimbo that he was with when we first met him. But he said they broke up, and he didn’t find another carbon copy of her, did he? He found _you_.”

“Thanks,” I said sarcastically.

“You know what I mean. It shows that he’s not superficial and only interested in a girl for her looks.”

Two backhanded compliments in less than thirty seconds. Nat was really outdoing herself tonight. “Wow, that makes me feel _so_ much better about myself. Thank you, Natasha.”

“Y/N…”

I held up a hand to silence her. “No, see, that in itself is a problem. Bucky could have any girl he wanted, and yet he decided to choose me. Either he is completely crazy, or he’s just settling because he can’t get what he actually wants. How is that good for me?”

Nat quirked an eyebrow. “Because you’re not everybody’s cup of tea, sweetie. And I don’t mean that in a bad way. It takes a certain kind of guy to handle you, and I honestly think Bucky is that type. He manages your sarcasm way better than Loki ever did. He dishes out the snark just as well as you do. He seems to genuinely enjoy your company. Plus, he looks at you like you hung the moon. I think he’s a keeper.”

I pointed at Nat. “That’s another thing! He seems so damn sure about our future, like that we actually _have_ a future together. White picket fence, two point five children, the whole nine yards. Every other romantic trope you can think of. He’s almost too good to be true. It makes me wonder when the other shoe is going to drop.”

“Well, it might drop sooner than you think if you don’t actually answer any of his calls.”

Suddenly, we found ourselves with fresh martinis and the company of one of the barflies. Ponytail, smarmy smile, looked like a used car salesman.

Nat smiled at Ponytail. “Let me guess. You’re wife doesn’t understand you.”  
  
Ponytail gave a start of surprise. “How did you know I was married?”  
  
“Lucky guess,” I shrugged. Also, the very obvious and gaudy wedding ring he was sporting was extremely not subtle.

“Should you be talking to two strange young women when you have a wife waiting for you at home?” Nat asked.

Ponytail gave a dejected sigh. “Probably not. But if I go home, she’ll just find stuff for me to do. It’s like she thinks she’s the boss of me or something.”  
  
Nat and I exchanged amused glances. Oh dear. This guy was such an amateur.

“It could be a hell of a lot worse,” I said sympathetically. “She could actually expect you to think for yourself, and then where would you be?”  
  
The prospect of having to make some sort of decision on his own seemed overwhelming. Ponytail gulped. “Yeah, actually, that would be a lot worse. You’re right, I got a good thing going. Enjoy your drinks, ladies." 

Ponytail was halfway out the door before Nat and I could finish murmuring our goodbyes.

Our next martini arrived courtesy of Dr Combover, a fifty-something cardiovascular surgeon who was on his sixth marriage but seriously contemplating ditching her for a teenage mail order bride from Russia. Despite this, he advised in all seriousness that he was willing to sleep with either Nat or myself, or even both of us, because what woman can resist a rich doctor, right?  
  
Nat gave him her best Resting Murder Face, and Dr Combover beat a hasty retreat.

A third martini soon followed, but just as a Danny Devito lookalike with a very obvious toupee was about to join us, he stopped. He swallowed, looked extremely guilty, and did an immediate about-face, leaving us wondering what on earth had scared him off before we’d had the chance to.

We had our answer when Father Steve sat at our table. I was inordinately pleased to see him. “Father Steve, what on earth is a nice priest such as yourself doing in a bar like this?”  
  
Father Steve smiled, his blue eyes twinkling with suppressed mirth. “I was looking for you, Y/N.”

“Me? How did you find me?”  
  
“I went to the office to speak with you. Your intern, Peter, told me where you were. He even printed out the directions from Google Maps and called me an Uber.”  
  
“Sounds like Peter.” The kid isn’t even old enough to drink yet, but somehow he always manages to keep tabs on me. I suspect Tony asked him to track me via the GPS on my phone in case he ever needed blackmail material.

Natasha had yet to utter a sound, I’m assuming because her brain had malfunctioned. Her mouth hung open in astonishment at the gorgeous man sitting next to us. She was starting to drool. I reached over and closed her mouth.

“Father Steve, this is my best friend, Natasha Romanoff. Nat, allow me to introduce Father Steve Rogers.”  
  
“It’s lovely to meet you, Natasha.”  
  
Nat just squeaked out an unintelligible noise in response, unable to actually form a coherent thought. She just continued to stare at the sexy priest, seemingly incapable of restarting her brain.

Father Steve sipped his beer. “This is an interesting place. I’ve never seen so many lost souls in one spot before. Other than church, of course.”  


I wasn’t entirely certain, but I had the feeling that Father Steve was including me amongst those lost souls.

The reason Father Steve searched for me at the MLC bar was so that he could tell me that he was unable to accompany me on our scheduled research trip, as he had urgent church business that required his immediate attention. He could have called and left a message, or given this information to Peter, who would have provided eager assurances that I would most definitely hear about it as soon as possible, but Father Steve preferred to tell me himself. He’s adorably old-fashioned, bless his soul.

I was correct in my earlier assumption that Father Steve would be a good drinking buddy. He had absolutely no aversion to alcohol. I mean, Catholics have wine every Sunday during communion so I suppose it shouldn’t really be a surprise. Plus, I’m pretty sure it’s a requirement to be able to drink if you want to be in the army. Father Steve threw back beers as if he was drinking water. He didn’t even seem to be affected by it in the slightest. It was almost as if he was blessed with some sort of super-metabolism that burned alcohol faster than the average human. Maybe being in holy orders gives you some sort of divine assistance.

Anyway, he spent a great deal of his time making observations about the people in the bar. Which was perfectly fine, until he commenced making observations about me that were a little too accurate for my liking. I got the distinct impression that Father Steve was somehow including me in his character analysis, and it made me more than slightly uncomfortable.

“I’ve seen so many men like this over the years. They’re lost, because they base their entire existence, their sense of self-worth, on materialistic things that don’t really matter. In the end, you can’t take it all with you. What’s the point? He who dies with the most toys is still dead,” he said.

“What makes you think these guys are lost?” I asked curiously.

“Well, look at all the cars parked outside. These guys are not exactly strapped for cash. I’m pretty sure each of them has at least one vacation home, a boat, several cars, probably a housekeeper or three…”

“So what’s missing from their lives? Sounds like they’ve got everything a person could want.”  
  
Father Steve gave me a look that indicated that he knew I was being facetious. “They have everything money can buy, sure. But are they happy? I doubt it. They’ve spent so much time accumulating material things, they’ve forgotten the most important thing. How to be happy within themselves. How to love themselves. Happiness can’t be bought. These men probably have a hundred times more than most people in the world could even dream about, and yet I guarantee that every single one of them is a miserable son of a gun.”  
  
“And then they come to a bar to drink away their problems,” I added.

“Everybody does that to some extent,” he replied, his dark blue eyes focused on me. Why on earth did he look at me when he said that? What does he think I’m running away from? _I’m_ not running away from anything. My life is perfectly under control, thank you very much.

“People nowadays have so much more than we could have imagined only a couple of generations ago, and yet more people are miserable than ever before. People feel empty, but don’t stop to consider the reasons _why_ they feel that way. They think it’s because they don’t have the latest iPhone, or the coolest car, or the designer handbag. They don’t stop to consider the real issues.” He took another sip of his beer. “Nowadays, we are judged by what we have, rather than on who we are. Our lives are meaningless if we only base them on our material possessions.”

“Yeah, well, excessive consumerism is America’s national sport.” I gazed speculatively at the priest sitting beside me. “You know, from what I understand, religion is basically about being grateful for what you have in your life, such as family and friends and your health.”  
  
Father Steve nodded. “I believe that is a fair assessment.”

“But advertising prides itself on convincing us that we should want whatever it is that we _don’t_ have, regardless of whether we actually need it or not. Its whole purpose is to make us covet something newer or shinier or better than what we already have. Advertising is designed to make us greedy.”

“You make a fair point,” Father Steve conceded.

“Well then, wouldn’t advertising religion kind of be a moot point? Wouldn’t one cancel out the other?” I winced. “I’m sorry, I’m waffling. I think it’s the martinis talking.”  
  
Father Steve chuckled. “I doubt that, Y/N. I think you are finally telling me what you truly believe. Alcohol can make people do that, you know. It’s better than truth serum.”

Shit. Father Steve was good. He’d managed to get a portion of the truth out of me without requiring me to go to confession.

I was so screwed.


	8. Does Running Away From Your Problems Count As Cardio?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You continue to ignore Bucky, and find inspiration for the church campaign while on your research trip.

Natasha had very bravely run away while Father Steve was at our table, not willing to make a fool of herself in front of the seriously sexy clergyman. She sought refuge at the bar, accepting drinks from drunk old men that she had no intention of paying the slightest bit of attention to. Once Father Steve left for the evening, she very gallantly returned to our table, bringing me yet another martini as a peace offering.

Well after midnight, we stumbled out to hail a cab. Natasha was still trying to convince me to call Bucky. She was apparently his number one fan. Which was a bit much, considering _I _was the one who was sexually involved with him.

“I’m not calling him, Nat. It’s well after midnight, so it’s too late to call him now, and I have to catch a plane at six in the morning, so that will be too early to call him tomorrow.” Ah, drunk logic, flawless as usual.

“Why are you catching a plane? Where are you going?” she demanded.  
  
“Research trip for this whole Catholic church campaign, remember? I have to obtain samples from focus groups in Denver, Houston and Las Vegas.”

“You’re running away from Bucky.”  
  
“No, I’m not. My life does not revolve around Bucky Barnes, unbelievable as that may sound. I’m going for work. Some of us actually have to work for a living, you know. We aren’t all marrying into money.” I don’t like it when Natasha calls me out. It brings out my inner bitch even quicker than usual.

“You _are_ running away,” she insisted.  
  
“No, I’m not,” I retorted.  
  
“Yes, you are.”  
  
“Am not.”

“Are too.”  
  
“Am not!”

“Are too, are too, are too!” Drunk Natasha reverts to the emotional maturity of a five-year-old.

“Nat, it is _way_ too late for this level of immaturity. I have to leave for the airport in a little over four hours. I need to try and get some sleep.”  
  
“Call him. They have phones in Denver, right?”  
  
“Look, I promise I will call him if I’m not too busy, okay?”

Nat sighed. “Fine. Can I just say though, for the record, that I think you are making a really big mistake if you let this guy go? If you give up on Bucky, you will regret it for the rest of your life, and I will take every opportunity I can to say, ‘I told you so’.”

She wasn’t bluffing. Nat relished every chance she got to rub people’s faces in their mistakes.

“Good night, Natasha.”

***********************************************

God, I hate airports. They are my own personal version of Hell.

I was the only person that was hauled aside at the security check and made to disrobe, despite my jacket being so sheer that it was practically see through and my pants so tight that it would have been impossible for me to conceal anything. Meanwhile, old white men wearing jackets bulky enough to hide an arsenal of weapons that would rival anything out of _The Godfather_ waltzed through security without so much as a how-do-you-do.

I was nursing the mother of all hangovers, and folks in the frequent flyers lounge had the nerve to be talking on their phones at the top of their lungs, not caring in the slightest that a mariachi band was performing in my skull and that it felt as if somebody had very rudely shoved an icepick through my left eye. It was as if my suffering had absolutely no impact on their lives at all. Inconsiderate bastards.

One good thing about the amount of travel I’m required to do for work is that I have enough frequent flyer miles to get an automatic upgrade to first class if there is an available seat. Yay for not having to sit in cattle class with the rest of the riff-raff whilst recovering from the hangover to end all hangovers. It made the trip to Denver that much more enjoyable.

Unfortunately, in first class this morning was a middle-aged woman who didn’t seem to understand that the whole purpose of wearing headphones whilst watching the movie was so that other people didn’t have to hear you. She insisted on providing a running commentary throughout the entire thing. I wanted to smother her with a pillow.

But hey, at least the pillows in first class are luxurious. She would have been smothered in style. 

***********************************************

You would think that being in Vegas would be fun. There are magic shows and music and dancing and tigers and alcohol. All bright lights and noise and excitement. But I was not having fun. Being ditched by Father Steve meant that my research trip was undertaken in the company of Scott and Peter. Both gave me headaches for very different reasons.

“Why don’t we go see a show? There seem to be lots of talented dancers here,” said Scott, pointing to a poster showcasing a bunch of scantily clad women wearing pretty much nothing but a few strategically placed rhinestones.

“Scott, I am not taking Peter to go and watch a bunch of topless dancers.” Peter seemed slightly disappointed by my declaration, but _somebody_ has to pretend to be the responsible adult around here, and it sure as shit wasn’t going to be Scott Lang. His t-shirt of the day proudly announced _I can’t talk, I’m busy ignoring you._

“What about a magic show?” Peter asked hopefully. Scott seemed interested, but I refused. I’m not twelve. I know magic isn’t real. Sorry, spoiler alert. 

“You’re so boring, Y/N. You wouldn’t come out with us in Denver either,” Scott pouted.

“Because I don’t really enjoy rock climbing, or hiking, or anything that requires me to be involved with nature.” Not unless nature involves a beach and a pitcher of margaritas.  
  
“Yeah, but then when we were in Houston you wouldn’t let us blow anything up at NASA,” Peter whined.  
  
“Because it’s _NASA! _And you wanted to _blow shit up!_ Don’t they have enough trouble with their spacecraft doing the whole blowing up thing without the two of you adding to it?”

Scott shook his head. “Face it, Peter. Y/N is a boring old woman who isn’t getting anywhere near enough sex. Let’s go to the bar and get a few drinks. We’ll charge it to the research project.”  
  
“I’m not old enough to drink yet, Scott,” Peter reminded him.  
  
“Well then, let’s go to the room and raid the minibar. Nobody will know that you were drinking unless you tell them.”

Peter looked at me for guidance. I shrugged. “I don’t care, as long as you stay in the room. Don’t get caught. Plausible deniability and all that.”

The two of them headed back to their hotel room. I made my way to the bar. I’d had plenty of practice drinking solo, especially since breaking up with Loki the Loser.

The bartender looked at me. “What’ll it be, miss?”  
  
“Um, I’m not sure. A diet Coke?”  
  
He sighed with disappointment. “I’m pretty sure I should be trying to convince you to add some rum to it or something.” He slid my drink to me, garnishing it with both a slice of lemon _and_ a maraschino cherry. Extravagance, thy name is Vegas. “So, are you here for a convention or something?”

“No, work. Well, mostly work. My best friend thinks I’m running away from my life. Well, from this guy I’ve been seeing, anyway. It’s one of those three-cities-in-four-days kind of trips, so it is actually starting to feel a bit like I’m on the run.”

The bartender – Phil, his nametag read - pondered that. “Well, _are_ you running away from a guy?”

“I guess so. And I’m not exactly sure why. I mean, on the surface, Bucky seems pretty much perfect. But you and I both know that there is no such thing as a perfect person. Rom-coms would have us believe otherwise, of course. They’ve conditioned us to believe in all sorts of unrealistic expectations when it comes to love and what the perfect partner should be. Bucky doesn’t seem to have any flaws, and I’m not sure that I trust that. I mean, if there _is_ something fundamentally flawed with him, wouldn’t I be better off knowing that now, instead of finding out in six months’ time when I’m in too deep? I’m just setting myself up for disappointment. Maybe I should bail now, rather than hope for the whole happily ever after thing.”

Phil shrugged. “Maybe. But you’ll never know if you don’t give him a chance, will you?”  
  
I snorted. “I didn’t come here for sensible advice, Phil. I came here to bitch and whine and all you are supposed to do is nod sagely and keep the drinks coming.”  
  
He laughed. “No problem. Another diet Coke?”  
  
I tapped the bar. “Hit me.” 

“You know what’s funny? I work with alcohol all day, every day, and I don’t even drink the stuff. I’m allergic to it. Isn’t that weird?”  
  
I sipped my diet Coke. “Totally. Hey, maybe I should marry you instead. That’s a thing people do in Vegas, isn’t it? Marry random strangers on a whim while Elvis looks on. Let’s do it.”  
  
Phil shook his head. “Oh, you don’t want to marry me, miss. No life insurance. No point. Why marry me if you aren’t going to get something out of it?”  
  
“Why don’t you have life insurance? Convinced you’re going to live forever?” I sucked on the lemon wedge, scrunching my nose up at the sour taste.  
  
“Nah, I just don’t see the point. If you’re going to gamble, you should play to win. But life insurance is basically gambling that you are going to lose. You’re betting on yourself to die, but you only collect big if you die young, but then you’re dead so you can’t even claim it. You know what I’m saying? You’re betting on death happening sooner rather than later so you can get the big payout. I say, just live life and enjoy it while you can. None of us get out of it alive anyway, so what’s the point?”

Holy cow. I just had an epiphany. Phil Coulson had basically just given me the perfect sales pitch for the Catholic church. I searched through my handbag for a pen and a piece of paper, and started jotting down ideas. I stayed until about two in the morning, my brain churning out more ideas than I’d had in the past few weeks.


	9. Look, I Never Asked For These Feelings So If You Could Make Them Stop, That Would Be Great

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Father Steve tries to help you navigate your emotional problems.  
You realise too late that you may have ruined things with Bucky forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALTERNATE CHAPTER TITLE: This Is Not The Way Things Are Supposed To Go. Did You Not Read The Script?

To: Cameron.Klein@brooklynbulletin.com

Reply to: y/n_planning@starkadvertising.com

_Dear Cameron,_

_Thank you for your grovelling apology with regards to your tardiness in replying to my previous emails. I accept, and will consider forgiving you in due course. You can’t rush forgiveness, you know. I’m not the Catholic church. Perhaps if you went to confession, you’d receive absolution in a more timely fashion._

_Goodness, it sounds like you’ve been busy. Spring cleaning is a great idea, although most people actually wait until spring to undertake such a task. And I’m not sure breaking up with your girlfriend counts as spring cleaning. But each to their own._

_Out of curiosity, may I ask exactly WHY you dumped your girlfriend? Have you recently turned forty and decide to have a midlife crisis? Did she recently turn twenty-one, thereby reaching her expiry date? Did you realise that brain cells are actually a useful trait in a life partner?_  
  
_ I hope the decluttering thing brings good feng shui into your life. Who knows, maybe next time you’ll actually LIKE your girlfriend._

_Cheers,_

_Y/N_

***********************************************

I arrived back at work after a ten-hour flight and about two hours sleep, only to be greeted with approximately ten back-to-back meetings. In spite of this, I was so perky due to the ideas I’d jotted down in Vegas that Bruce reported me to HR under the suspicion that I had taken some sort of illicit substance. Rhodey complained to management that my unrelenting cheerfulness was scaring him.

Everything with regard to the Catholic church account was meant to be confidential, with any information relating to it only to be divulged to those persons involved, and even then, only on a strictly need-to-know basis. Naturally, this meant that everyone who worked at Stark Advertising knew everything there was to know about it. Some even knew more than me, and it was supposed to be _my_ project.

Because I had about five million meetings to attend upon my return to the office, I left it to Scott to tell everybody how the research groups had gone.

Houston was our biggest success. Scott had somehow, at relatively short notice, managed to round up a focus group consisting entirely of Texas society matrons and their equally snobby daughters. We had to book a bigger room because the one we’d originally planned to use couldn’t hold all of the hair. I haven’t seen hair that big since the 80s. And I wasn’t even born until 1992. I don’t think Houston got the memo that the 80s ended last century. 

While Scott was busy retelling the outcomes of our focus groups, with only minor embellishments, I was busy attending meetings that honestly should have been conducted via email. Seriously, they were a complete waste of my precious time. For example, when you are required to attend a brainstorming session, it is usually a good idea to make sure that your brain is also in attendance. Several of the other managers didn’t seem to understand how brainstorming sessions were meant to work. My good mood was rapidly diminishing. This was made worse by the fact that every meeting ran overtime, and none of them involved food.  
  
I was starving by the time I exited my final meeting well after eight that night. I grabbed a granola bar from my desk, deciding that it would tide me over until I could grab some Chinese food on my way home, when I heard mumbling coming from the office that had been set aside for Father Steve to use whenever he attended the agency. Curious, I peeked in. 

Tony was sitting on the floor, squinting at an unopened bottle of beer as if by sheer willpower alone he could magically make it open. He looked up at me. “Y/N, the beer won’t come out.” He turned the bottle upside down, looking at it sadly. “Do you have a bottle opener?”

“Not on me, no. Where’s Father Steve?”  
  
“Dunno. Does _he _have a bottle opener?”  
  
“Probably not.” I went to the phone on Father Steve’s desk. “Hey, Peter, can you bring a bottle opener to Father Steve’s office? Thanks.”  
  
“Beer or wine, Y/N?” he asked, completely unperturbed at my request. Once I hung up, I sat in the chair opposite the desk, awaiting Father Steve’s return. He came back to his office after a couple of minutes.

“Y/N,” he beamed as he sat down at his desk. He seemed genuinely pleased to see me. “When did you get back into town?”  
  
“This morning. How about you?”  
  
“About an hour ago. I just stopped by to grab some documents that I’d forgotten. I didn’t realise there was going to be a party in my office. How did the research trip go?”  
  
I smiled at him. “Quite well. We got some interesting data. I’d be happy to go through it with you next week if you like.”

“That would be fine. And you? How are you?” Those bright blue eyes seemed to stare directly into my soul.

“Oh, I’m fine,” I lied.

Father Steve tilted his head to the side, reminding me of a golden retriever. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Surprisingly, I did, but before I could confess anything, Peter entered the office, bottle opener in hand. He handed it to Tony, who accepted it gratefully.

“You’ll go far, kid.” Tony squinted up at him. “You look familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?”  
  
Peter rolled his eyes. “It’s me, Dad. Peter. You know, your son?”

“Are you sure?”  
  
“Yes, Dad.”  
  
“Huh.” Tony squinted harder. “Since when have you been taller than me?”  
  
“I’m not. You’re sitting on the floor and I’m completely upright.”  
  
“Huh. I guess that would explain it.” Tony swigged his beer, then stood up unsteadily. Peter put his arms around Tony in an attempt to minimise the swaying, and dragged him out of the office with a hasty apology to Father Steve, and a promise to dump his father in his own office to sleep off the alcohol.

Father Steve leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled underneath his chin. He stared at me, unblinking.

Shifting uncomfortably in my seat, I asked, “What?”

Those blue eyes never left mine. “Would you like to talk about it?”  
  
“About what?”  
  
“About whatever it is that is making you so upset.” Concern was written all over Father Steve’s handsome face.

“Well, there’s this guy…”  
  
He grinned. “These sorts of things usually involve a guy.”  
  
“Actually, there are _two_ guys.”

His grin slipped a bit. “And the problem is what, exactly?”

“The problem is that one guy is definitely interested, whereas the other guy isn’t. Or if he is, then he is excellent at keeping that fact to himself.”

He gazed at me knowingly. “And you would prefer the one who is interested to not be, and the one who is aloof to suddenly declare his undying devotion to you?”  
  
“No. I’d like both of them to be interested.” I’m such a brazen hussy. God is going to strike me down for being such an unmitigated flirt.

For some reason, Father Steve’s eyes seemed to be glittering with mirth. “It sounds like you don’t actually know what you really want.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

I wasn’t really sure exactly what to tell Father Steve. That I’d somehow accidentally become involved with Bucky, who is perfect and sweet and amazing in bed, which just makes me suspicious because _nobody _is that perfect and so I’m not really keen on waiting for the other shoe to drop, and I’m getting cold feet and am willing to throw away what on the surface seems to be a perfectly good relationship because I don’t trust anything that is too good to be true.

And now, my email crush Cameron is newly single, and I desperately want to meet him, except that _he_ has never indicated that he has any desire to meet _me_. So naturally part of me is convinced that Cameron The Unobtainable is ‘The One’, because obviously we always want what we can’t have.

But another part of me thinks that I probably should stop ignoring Bucky because that could end up being a monumental mistake and Nat is going to spend the rest of her life saying, “I told you so” because I’ll find out when it’s far too late that Bucky is actually The One That Got Away.

I sighed. “I just don’t know whether I’m meant to be in a relationship. I’ve had so much bad luck with the whole dating thing over the years. I’ve had a broken engagement because I wasn’t what my ex-fiancé wanted. What if I’m just not meant to be with anybody?”

“I don’t think it’s really as bad as all that,” Father Steve said softly.

“I’m afraid it might be.”

Father Steve spoke kindly. “In my experience, people are often unhappy because the way things are is not necessarily the way they want things to be. Once you learn to accept the way things are, happiness follows. Happiness doesn’t result from getting what you want; it comes from accepting what you are able to get and being content with that.”  
  
“Gee, you’re a regular walking, talking Hallmark card. But thanks a lot, Father. That was actually kind of comforting.” I paused on my way out of his office. “I don’t mean this to sound creepy in any way, but it is a damn shame for the women of the world that a man like you is celibate. A tragedy of Shakespearean proportions.”  
  
He smiled at the compliment. “Thank you. Good night, Y/N.”  
  
“Good night, Father.”

I pondered Father Steve’s words, and realised that he was right. I had the classic bird-in-the-hand-is-worth-two-in-the-bush situation. So now I had to go and see a man about a bird, before it decided to make its nest in somebody else’s bush.

And just pray to God that it wasn’t too late for this bird to get the worm.

***********************************************

Most people I know hate surprises. I definitely do. Don’t get me wrong, spontaneity is great, but give me a little advance warning first so that I know when I’m expected to be impulsive. And don’t just turn up on my doorstep unannounced. Surprise visits make me feel like I’m about to be hauled away by the authorities for questioning about that time in third grade when I stole Jane Foster’s lunch because she had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and I only had boring old bologna on rye.

So really, I should have known better than to just pop up uninvited to anybody else’s house.

To describe Bucky as surprised to see me on his front porch at ten o’clock on a Friday night would be an understatement. He looked decidedly underwhelmed. Not the kind of welcome I was hoping for, given that we’d been sort-of having semi-regular sex for a few weeks now. Well, if you didn’t count the past couple of weeks where I was actively avoiding him because feelings were starting to become involved and those are just icky and I don’t really handle those very well and have I mentioned before that I am an extremely mature individual who is not at all emotionally stunted?

At any rate, Bucky did not look at all happy to see me. Which made me think that perhaps turning up to his place with absolutely no warning was not one of the smartest decisions I have made in recent times.

“Hi,” I said weakly.

It took him a good ten seconds to respond. “Y/N.” His voice was completely emotionless. Gulp.

“I’m glad you’re home. I tried calling to let you know I was coming over, but I only got your voicemail.”  
  
“I turned my phone off.”

“Oh.”

We stood there in what was quite possibly the loudest silence I have ever heard. I didn’t really know what to say, and Bucky appeared to have absolutely no intention of putting an end to my agony. 

Finally, just when I thought that the silence was going to stretch to infinity and beyond, Bucky asked, “What are you doing here?”  
  
Relief. He speaks! “Well, I wanted to see you. It’s been a while and I was kind of hoping we could catch up.” I noticed that he had a pained expression on his face. “I’m sorry, is this a bad time?”  
  
“Your timing sucks.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes scrunched as if he was developing a headache.

“Right. Sorry. I’ll go, then. We can catch up later if you like. It’s totally up to you. I mean, it would be nice if maybe we could go out and see a movie and have dinner and chat like we were actually friends or something. But hey! Don’t feel obligated, it’s not like you owe me anything, you know… OK, so I’m just going to go now…”

I turned and headed down his steps, only to pause when I heard a voice coming down the hallway.  
  
“Bucky-bear, who was at the door?” I looked over my shoulder to see Dot with her hand resting possessively on Bucky’s shoulder. He didn’t seem unhappy with the attention. Then I noticed that she was wearing nothing but a button-up shirt – a _man’s_ shirt – and that Bucky was only wearing boxers. Clearly, something tawdry was happening.

“I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?” I looked at Bucky, who at least had the decency to look slightly embarrassed. He didn’t say anything though, so clearly I needed to give him a hint as to what to say next. “This is usually the part where the guy tells the girl that it’s not what it looks like.”  
  
“Well, I can’t say that, because this is exactly what it looks like.”

“Right. Well then, that’s my cue to exit stage left. Enjoy your life together. I’m sure you’ll be very happy with each other.” I was not going to cry. I was _not_ going to cry. _I was not going to cry and fucking fuckity fuck why the fuck was I crying?_

Bucky raced down the stairs and grabbed me just before I reached his front gate. “You know, I called you about twenty times. You never answered. You never called me back. Not once. I thought you weren’t interested in seeing me anymore.”  
  
“Well, you didn’t waste any time getting over that.”

“If you would have just answered me when I called you…”

I sighed. “It doesn’t matter, Bucky. Clearly, I was just a temporary diversion while you were trying to figure out your feelings about Dot. Obviously you guys have worked things out. I’m happy for you. Now if you don’t mind, I need to go home and eat several gallons of ice cream and drink a shit ton of wine.”

“Y/N, wait.” He grabbed my hand again, but I pulled it from his grasp.  
  
“Bucky, if you’re about to tell me that this is all just a big misunderstanding, then don’t waste your breath. You’d better get back inside. The little missus is waiting.”  
  
I made my way to my car, and even though it was a whisper, I quite clearly heard Bucky mutter, “Fuck.”


	10. This Is Not The Way To Ask For Forgiveness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You come face-to-face with your ex, but you’re not sure that you want to hear what he has to say.

Binge-watching the entire series of _Pride and Prejudice_ on Netflix whilst gorging on a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food and washing it down with several glasses of cab sav was a great idea. Mr Darcy would never treat me like this.

I tried not to think about Bucky. If I thought about him too much, I was likely to head back over to his house just so I could beat the snot out of him. I punched a cushion instead, but it didn’t really give me any satisfaction. I needed to find something else to punch.

Maybe Loki would oblige. He has the kind of face that people are just itching to punch. 

Really, I don’t need a man in my life. And I most definitely don’t need a man like Bucky Barnes in my life. No sirree. I am one thousand percent better off on my own. Especially because he and Dot were obviously back together.

Shit. What if they had actually been together all this time? What if they’d never really been apart? What if I was… gasp… _The Other Woman?_ Fuck. Now _I _was the man-stealing slut. Terrific. My life sucks balls.

_See, Nat, I was right. I never should have gotten involved with a guy like Bucky. I told you it was too good to be true. It was always going to end this way._

Even though a teeny tiny part of me whispered that it might have been partially my own fault for stringing him along and treating him like crap.

_Shut up, logic. Nobody invited you to this pity party._

I went outside to throw the empty wine bottles into the recycling. It was absolutely tragic that a single woman had a trash can that was almost entirely comprised of empty wine bottles, but I guess it is only to be expected of a twenty-something woman who has suddenly become single once again.

What I was not expecting was to be grabbed by two men and thrown into the back of a van.

***********************************************

_Kidnapped._ I was being kidnapped. Just when I thought my life couldn’t get any more weird.

Look, I know how these things are supposed to work. I’ve watched enough TV dramas to understand that I’m supposed to somehow kick out the lights in the back of the vehicle and then the cops will stop the car because it’s illegal to drive with a broken taillight, and when the car stops I’ll scream and yell and the police will take a look and discover me in the trunk.

This would be fine if I was kidnapped and shoved into the trunk of a sedan. But I was in a van, and there was no way for me to access the taillights in order to enact my brilliant escape plan.

The doors of the van were locked. Maybe I could kick them, instead. If I kicked them hard enough, surely somebody would hear me, right? It was worth a shot.

Somebody heard me, alright. Unfortunately, it was one of the kidnappers. “Hey! Why are you kickin’ my van? You cut that out right now!”

Another voice continued. “Yeah! Stop that or we’ll have to… do… somethin’… to make you stop. Or somethin’.”

“Yeah, so be nice!”

I snorted. “Be nice? _Be nice?_ You guys grabbed me from my front yard and shoved me into a van, which is not a very nice thing to do to a lady, and you expect me to be _nice?_ I don’t think so, pal.”

The first guy spoke again. “Look, sweetheart, it ain’t personal. We’re gettin’ paid to do a job. And it’s a brand new van, so just, I dunno, don’t damage it, OK?”

“So what, I’m supposed to just sit back here all quiet like and just go along with you kidnapping me?”

“Yeah, that’s the idea!” Kidnapper Number One sounded much happier.

I sat in silence for a few minutes. “So what are you going to do with me?”  
  
“We ain’t doin’ nothin’,” the first voice responded.

“Then why did you kidnap me?”  
  
“Dunno.”  
  
“You don’t know why you kidnapped me?” I asked incredulously.

“Look, it wasn’t our idea, alright? We got paid to do a job, so we’re doin’ it.”  
  
“So kidnapping people is your job?”  
  
“Oh, no,” replied the second guy. “This is just a side gig, you know what I mean? Dave and me are locksmiths. It pays real good, but you know, times are tough nowadays. One job just isn’t enough to live on anymore, so we had to look for something else to give us a bit of extra cash, you know what I’m sayin’?”  
  
“Shut up, Luis!” hissed Dave.

The van slowed down, and a little window at the front slid open. One of the guys looked into the back of the van at me. It sounded like Luis. “We’re stoppin’ for coffee. You want somethin’?”

“Um, a black coffee would be good. Thanks, Luis.”  
  
His eyes widened and he looked at his accomplice in alarm. “Shit, Dave, how does she know my name?”  
  
“How the hell would I know? Maybe she’s psychic or somethin’.” Clearly I was dealing with a pair of criminal masterminds here.

After a few minutes, a cup of coffee and a doughnut was passed through to me. “Don’t make a mess back there,” scolded Dave.

We drove on again, I guessed for about another hour or so, before the van once again came to a halt. I had no idea where I was, but it didn’t look like the sort of place one would normally go to when one was kidnapped. Not that I had any personal experience with that before now, but according to movies and cop shows, kidnappees are usually holed up in a basement or a warehouse or something similar. This place looked like something out of _Gone With The Wind._ It was a huge mansion.

Dave and Luis escorted me inside and led me to a small bedroom. “Well, this is where we leave you. You be good, now,” Dave said.

Naaaaw. They cared. “Bye, Dave. Bye, Luis.”

I looked around the room I was in. A single bed, a bedside table with a small lamp, a tiny window. A small glass of water and a jug were on the bedside table. I laid down on the bed and pondered my predicament.

Whatever happened, I was sure it must be Bucky’s fault.

Actually, I should probably blame Cameron. If it hadn’t been for the pesky feelings I’d developed for my email crush who refused to meet me, then I would have totally called Bucky back and then he never would have run back into the scrawny arms of Dot the Stick. So this whole situation was totally Cameron’s fault.

Then again, if Loki hadn’t cheated on me and caused me to break off our engagement then I never would have been so angry that I wrote to Cameron in the first place, so really this is all Loki’s fault.

If in doubt, blame Loki. It’s worked wonders for me over the past twelve months, no need to change tactics now.  
  
Happy that I finally knew who to blame for this whole sorry mess, I promptly fell asleep.

***********************************************

I opened my eyes to the sound of footsteps outside my bedroom. Which was weird, because I live alone, apart from my dog. I looked around, and realised that the reason my bedroom looked unfamiliar was because it was not actually my bedroom.

Remembrance came flooding back. Ah, that’s right. I was kidnapped last night. 

Cautiously, I turned the handle of the bedroom door, surprised when it actually opened. I headed down the hallway, and made my way down the stairs. I was most likely about to meet my impending doom, but I’d really rather get that over with than sit and wait for it to come and find me.

I entered what I assumed to be the kitchen and stopped dead in my tracks. Standing at the breakfast bar, with an enigmatic smile on his face, was my ex-fiancé, Loki.

As I stood there transfixed, Loki padded over to me and grabbed one of my hands in his, brushing his lips to my fingertips in greeting. “Y/N, it’s good to see you.”  
  
I coughed. “I’d love to say it’s good to see you, too, but it’s really not.” I glared at him. “Wait a minute. Are _you_ responsible for kidnapping me?”  
  
“I thought it would be the best way to grab your attention. Being snatched from your life is meant to be symbolic of the control you think you have over your life. In reality, everything is the will of God.”  
  
“Oh, _of course_ God is involved in this. Ever since He found me a couple of months ago, He’s caused nothing but trouble.”

Loki had yet to relinquish his hold on my hand. I’d attempted to free myself from his grasp, but his grip was much firmer than I remembered. He led me outside to a loveseat on the patio. “Let’s sit here. My life coach – this is her house – made me realise that in order for me to move forward with my life, I needed to speak to you and help you move on with yours.”

“And you needed to kidnap me in order to do that? You couldn’t have just told me over the phone?”

Loki shook his head. “I’ve treated you abysmally, and as such, I owe you a debt. In order to repay that debt, I’m expected to assist you in some way.”

“And just how do you plan to help me, Loki?”  
  
He looked at me. “Y/N, I feel that you are desperately unhappy. And unless you are willing to face the issues at the heart of your unhappiness, you will never know peace.”

I rolled my eyes. Great. Loki Laufeyson, of all people, had turned into some sort of New Age Hippie. “So let me see if I’ve got this right. You kidnapped me in order for _you_ to get closure and move on with your life, but _I’m_ the one that has issues? Loki, you left me for another woman! I’m fairly certain that _you_ are the cause of my unhappiness!”

“I know you feel that I’m the bad guy, and in a way I suppose you’re right. But this is my attempt to rectify things and hopefully allow you to find your own happiness.”  
  
I quirked an eyebrow. “Alright. I’m listening. Enlighten me.”

Loki looked at me carefully. “I had the liberty of having your chart done.”  
  
“My chart?”

“Your numerology chart.” _Obviously. _“Your chart doesn’t have any twos in it.” Of course it doesn’t.  
  
“And that’s a bad thing because…?”

“The number two represents the emotions, the heart. The numerologist advised that your chart indicates a highly intelligent, motivated person who has difficulty dealing with emotions.”  
  
“What a load of codswallop.” That statement wasn’t proving him right _at all._ Also, I’ve clearly been spending too much time with Father Steve. I’m starting to speak like I’m from the 1940s.  
  
Loki looked at me seriously. “You have trouble accepting and showing how you feel. You overthink everything, which means that you talk yourself out of feeling love. You reason it away. You don’t allow yourself to feel love because you don’t think you’re worthy of it. You push people away because you haven’t learned how to love yourself.”

“Riiiiiiiiight.” Good grief, my corporate ladder climbing, Wolf of Wall Street wannabe really _has_ turned into a hippie. I’ve clearly entered some sort of parallel universe.  
  
“Y/N, I understand your scepticism. Believe me, I was in your position not too long ago. But I think the reason you entered a relationship with me in the first place was because you knew it was doomed from the start.”  
  
“Rubbish,” I scoffed.  
  
Loki sighed. “Tell me the truth. Did you honestly think you and I would spend the rest of our lives together?”  
  
“We were engaged, weren’t we? That usually means that people expect to live happily ever after,” I said sarcastically.

“Look, I know I did a lot of shitty things when we were together and that’s why we’re where we are now. But you did your part to sabotage the relationship as well. People don’t usually go into a relationship expecting it to end before it begins. You’ve been doing that for a long time and I don’t think you even realise it.” He squeezed my hand. “I know you don’t believe it, but please, just think about what I said, OK?”  
  
“Fine. I’ll think about it.”  
  
“Good. I honestly hope you find happiness, Y/N. If anybody deserves it, it’s you.” Loki smiled at me, and I was surprised to find that it didn’t offend me or make me want to punch him in the face.

“So, are you still with the bimbo?” I asked curiously.  
  
Loki snorted. “God, no. She didn’t know how many R’s were in her name.” He gave me a long-suffering look. “Her name was Samantha.”

I giggled. Loki continued, “I am seeing someone, though. She’s very sensible and sweet and has promised to give me a chance once I finally get my shit together.”  
  
“Sounds like a smart woman. Far too smart for the likes of you.”  
  
“Agreed,” he grinned. “What about you? Are you seeing anybody?”  
  
I shook my head. Loki have me a quick hug. “Don’t worry. I have faith that the right man for you is just around the corner. Now, how about breakfast?”  
  
“You learned how to cook?” I asked in disbelief.  
  
“Goodness me, no. There’s a private chef. I’m paying an absolute fortune to be here; do you honestly think I’m going to do my own cooking?”  
  
That sounded more like the Loki I knew.


	11. All I Want You To Do Is Feed Me Chocolate And Tell Me I'm Pretty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You return home after your kidnapping, and Bucky tries to make amends.

My kidnappers, Dave and Luis, drove me home that afternoon, after Loki had confirmed that my ‘abduction’ was no longer in effect. I got to sit in the front of the van this time, which was a lot more comfortable. I was squeezed in between the two of them. Dave did nothing but grunt at me, but Luis chattered away happily the entire drive. I found myself thinking he was kind of sweet. Stockholm syndrome at its finest.

They dropped me outside the front of my brownstone and waved goodbye as they left. Luis was much more enthusiastic than Dave.

Barkley was so excited to see me that it took me nearly an hour to calm him down. He slobbered all over me and refused to let me out of his sight, even when I needed to pee. Eventually though, he calmed down enough to get off my lap and allow me to get my breath back. Why sixty-pound dogs always believe that they are the size of a chihuahua, I will never understand.

I was so relieved to be back in my own home that I hopped in the shower and stayed in there until I resembled a human-shaped raisin. Just as I was drying my hair with a towel, the doorbell rang.  
  
I raced down the stairs, calling out, “If that’s Mormons, I already found God, thank you very much.” 

“It’s Bucky.” I opened the door and, sure enough, there stood Bucky Barnes. He held a grocery bag in one hand, and an enormous bunch of flowers in the other. Barkley seemed a lot happier to see Bucky than I was.

“Those flowers are hideous. Did you steal them from a funeral home?”

His expression was apologetic. “They were the only flowers I could find. There’s nothing good in the shops after five.”

I took the bouquet and promptly threw it in the compost bin. “What’s in the bag?”

“Chocolate. I figured most women like chocolate when they’re upset.” I stood aside and let him enter my domain. “Where have you been, doll? I’ve been trying to call you all last night and again all day today.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“I’m not doing anything tonight.”  
  
“What does your girlfriend have to say about that?” I asked with more than a slight degree of sarcasm.

He stared at his feet. “That was a huge mistake. It should never have happened, but it’s over now.”

“Again? I’ll have to start keeping track. If it happens another time I might start to think you have issues with letting her go.” I headed into my lounge room and sat on the sofa.

“Look, let me explain…”  
  
I held up a hand to stop him. “Nope. Not in the mood for explanations tonight. Just hand over the chocolate.” He did so and I opened the box, searching for the peppermint creams. It was definitely a peppermint cream kind of night.  
  
Bucky knelt on the floor in front of me. “I’d really like to try and work things out, doll. I think we can make it work.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But I’m not in the right frame of mind to deal with this tonight, Bucky.”

“Alright.” He stared at me. “I like your shirt.” I was wearing a t-shirt featuring a shark that said _Feed me and tell me I’m pretty._ It was my favourite.

Suddenly, all of the adrenaline that had been coursing through my body for the past twenty-four hours or so decided to disappear at that exact moment. This meant that I immediately burst into tears.

Bucky yelped, “I’m sorry! But I really do like your shirt! Don’t cry, Jesus, I didn’t mean to upset you, doll.” He handed me a box of Kleenex and wrapped his arms around me while I sobbed uncontrollably for what felt like an hour. It was probably only about five minutes, but time has a funny way of feeling skewed when you are running purely on emotion. Barkley rested his head on my lap, whining softly until I calmed down.

“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong?” Bucky asked.  
  
“No,” I sniffed. “What’s in the bag besides chocolate?”  
  
“Stuff to get you to like me again.”

I humphed. “That bag is nowhere near big enough, mister.”

“Is this about me?”  
  
“Believe it or not, Bucky, not everything is about you. I’m just… I’ve had a really shit twenty-four hours, and I’m exhausted.”

“It might be best if I stay here tonight.” I stared in disbelief at Bucky, who held up his hands in surrender. “Just to make sure you’re alright. You seem pretty upset for some reason, and I don’t think you should be on your own.”  
  
I sniffed again. “Fine. But if you’re going to stay, you can make yourself useful and order the biggest, cheesiest, most pepperoniest pizza you can. Then hand over whatever else is in the bag. And then tomorrow, after I’ve had a good night’s sleep, I am going to kick your two-timing ass into next week.”

“I look forward to it, doll.”

***********************************************

Detective Sam Wilson was a friend of Bucky’s from the army. He seemed to be regretting the acquaintance. Ever since being introduced to me a little over an hour ago, he spent a lot of time staring at a spot on the ceiling of his office at the local precinct. I wasn’t sure why. It looked like a pretty boring ceiling to me. But as I was relaying the details of my abduction, or whatever it was, he kept tilting his head backwards and focusing his gaze upwards.

“You don’t believe me. No wonder Bucky says you’re a good detective. It normally takes people a good six months to figure out I’m full of shit and that they shouldn’t listen to a word I say.”  
  
Sam snorted. “I believe you. Your story is so ludicrous that you couldn’t possibly have invented it.”

“It all just seems so preposterous. I’m not even sure it counts as a crime. I don’t know if it’s worth reporting it or not.”

Sam looked at me. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. You say this guy… what was his name again? Luke?”  
  
“Loki. Loki Laufeyson.”

“Right. So this Loki abducted you for the purpose of… what, exactly?”

“So he could get closure on our relationship. Apparently it was that whole one-good-turn-deserves-another thing. Like, it was meant to help clear up his relationship chakra so that he’ll recognise his soulmate when he finally meets her. Or something. I kind of stopped listening after he mentioned his spiritual awakening.”

Sam squinted at me. “Right. So what was this good turn that he supposedly did for you?”  
  
I shrugged. “He told me that I was sabotaging my own happiness.”

“Uh huh. And how exactly are you doing that?” Sam shook his head. “You know what, never mind. That’s not really important. So after that, he just let you go?”

“Yep. He got Bonnie and Clyde – sorry, Dave and Luis – to drive me home afterward. Honestly, I feel that it may just be the most civilised kidnapping in history.”

“Did they hurt you in any way? Threaten you physically?”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
“Did they force you to do anything you didn’t want to do?”  
  
I shook my head. “Not really. I mean, apart from the whole abducting me and holding me against my will overnight thing.”

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “OK. Let’s see if we can sort this out. Would you recognise the two guys who grabbed you if you saw them again?”

“I guess so.”  
  
“Could you describe them for our police sketch artist?”  
  
“Sure. Or I could just give you their names and phone numbers.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “That would be even better.”

I fished out the business cards I’d pilfered from the front of the van. “That’s them. Dave and Luis are locksmiths. I’m thinking of calling them to change my locks for me. They seem pretty efficient.”  
  
“Man, my job would be a hell of a lot easier if every criminal handed out business cards,” Sam grinned.  
  
“Oh, they aren’t criminals. Not good ones, at any rate. They’re not bad guys. I don’t want to see them get into trouble.”  
  
Sam gave me a look. “They kidnapped you. They’d probably get a couple of years just for that.”  
  
“Look, I wasn’t hurt. I’m fine. I don’t really want to press any charges.”  
  
Sam sighed. “I understand, but I need to check this place out anyway. You were taken there without your permission. At the very least, I’m obliged to conduct a search of the place to make sure nobody else is being held there against their will.”  
  
“Well, everybody there seemed very happy. All peace and love and all that stuff. But if you think you need to check it out, then knock yourself out.”

Bucky knocked on the door, and Sam waved at him to enter. “Do you have someone you can stay with for the next few days?” Sam asked.

“Why?”  
  
“I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to be on your own right now. I don’t think you’re in any further danger, but there’s still a chance you might be in shock. Sometimes that can be delayed for a few days and I’d feel better knowing you had someone keeping an eye on you.”  
  
Bucky nodded. “She can stay with me.” He ignored my squawk of protest, making a shushing motion with his hands.  
  
“Good. Let me know if you stay anywhere else, so I can contact you with any updates.” Sam looked at me sternly.  
  
“You’re not going to be mean to Loki, are you?” I queried.  
  
Sam rolled his eyes. “No, I won’t be mean to Loki.” He shook my hand and told me he’d be in touch.

I told Bucky that I was perfectly capable of walking home on my own because I was a big girl now, and that I didn’t need his help to pack a bag of clothes so that I could stay with him. He reluctantly let me go home alone, after making me promise that I would call him once I was ready to come over to his place.  
  
I arrived home and noticed two things: 

  1. My front gate, which before was barely hanging onto its rusty old hinges, had been repaired and was now securely fastened with a brand new lock;
  2. My former kidnappers were standing next to their van, which was in front of my next-door neighbour’s home, and Dave was wielding a crowbar.


	12. Whose Bright Idea Was It To Get Drunk And Then Start Telling The Truth?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get extremely inebriated and make a startling confession.

To: Cameron.Klein@brooklynbulletin.com

Reply to: y/n_planning@starkadvertising.com

_Dear Cameron,_

_Last Friday night I was kidnapped and taken to some weird hippie cult where people talked about their feelings and drank kombucha and sang ‘Kumbaya’ and all sorts of other distasteful things. As far as kidnappers go, they seemed quite nice. Dave and Luis – those are my kidnappers – are actually quite sweet. They came back the day after abducting me, and fixed my front gate, which seems fair to me. It actually shuts now, which is nice._

_They meant to fix the gate as a surprise to make up for kidnapping me, but they were still there when I got back home. They managed to lock themselves out of their van, and had spent three hours trying to break into it so they could leave. Given that they are locksmiths, this doesn’t bode well for their business. I think I might ask a different locksmith to change the locks on my door. I’m not sure that Dave and Luis are completely reliable after all._

_Anyway, back to my kidnapping. I was ostensibly kidnapped at the behest of my ex-fiancé, so that he could apologise for cheating on me when we were together, and also to tell me that I’m basically an emotional vacuum who needs to learn how to love herself before I could ever hope to be filled with love by somebody else. He appears to have found God, but I’m not sure he received the memo that kidnapping ex-fiancées is considered bad form by the man upstairs. Regardless, he seemed to be having fun finding himself. I feel that you would get along with him quite well. You both seem to indicate that I have appalling taste in men._

_Hope your weekend wasn’t as boring as mine!_  
  
_Love,_

_Y/N_

***********************************************

Nat and I ended up at a seedy-looking bar on the outskirts of town, ostensibly to talk about how her wedding planning was coming along. Unfortunately for me, Nat seemed far more interested in discussing every single aspect of my sad and sorry love life. She thrived on drama, and right now I was her own personal walking, talking soap opera.

“Well?” she asked expectantly.

“Well what? What else could you possible want to know after finding out that my alleged boyfriend was having sex with someone that wasn’t actually me?”  
  
“Only after you’d refused to answer any of his calls for two weeks.”

“Whose side are you on?” I asked indignantly.

Natasha quirked a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “Look, normally I’d tell you to dump his two-timing ass and move on. But you’d really only been seeing Bucky for a few weeks before deciding to stop speaking to him for no apparent reason. I think that, given that you weren’t exactly in a committed relationship, his transgression, whilst bad, is not completely unforgivable.” 

“It was a week ago. I think I’m entitled to still hold a grudge. It’s not like I’ve broken up with him.”  
  
“Right. That’s why you’re currently living with him.”

I glared at Nat. “I’m not ‘living with him’. I’m just staying at his place temporarily while the police investigate my so-called kidnapping.”  
  
“Are you sleeping with him?”  
  
“On a technicality, I suppose. But it doesn’t count.”  
  
Nat raised the other eyebrow. “And why ever not?”  
  
“Because if I hadn’t been kidnapped, then Bucky and I wouldn’t be together right now. Not after he slept with Dot whilst he was supposed to be dating me. Which means that we wouldn’t be living together. Therefore, we wouldn’t be seeing each other so we most definitely wouldn’t be having sex. Which means that any sex we are currently having is purely coincidental and totally not indicative of us being in a relationship. It’s just a stress reliever. Besides, given that I haven’t been kidnapped again this week, it’s safe to say that I can move back home tomorrow. So it’s most likely the end of it all.”  
  
“Bucky may just be your last shot at being with a guy who has a stable job, no ex-wives or kids, great hair, and no apparent addictions. Besides,” she smirked, “I’m pretty sure you’re crazy about him." 

“Yeah, but we both know I have terrible taste in men. I mean, look at Loki.”

“Nobody, least of all you, really thought that your relationship with Loki was ever going to last.”  
  
I shrugged. “Everybody makes mistakes, Natasha.”  
  
“Yes, but you’re the only person I know who consistently goes out of their way to make them on purpose. I mean, you’re just about to make the biggest mistake of your life.”  
  
“Meaning?”  
  
She looked at me like I was an idiot. “_Meaning,_ that you are looking for reasons to dump the one guy you’ve been involved with that actually has a shot of lasting the distance with you.”  
  
“What, you mean exchanging bodily fluids with Ex-Girlfriend Barbie isn’t enough of a reason to kick him to the kerb? If he’s done it once, what’s to stop him from doing it again?”  
  
“Because I don’t think he will. Trust me. Bucky is worth hanging on to. I’m nearly married. I’m an expert at these things.”

***********************************************

“Sam Wilson called. He wants you to call him back,” Bucky informed me when I arrived at his home. “He just wants to check how you’re doing.” He propped me up and helped me inside, as I was having some difficulty getting my legs to work properly unaided.

“Yay. Should I call him now?”  
  
“It’s after midnight, doll, so it’s probably better to leave it until the morning.”

“Aw, were you waiting up for me?” I slurred.  
  
“Yes. It’s my neck on the chopping block if anything happens to you while I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on you, doll.”

“Awwwwww. That’s so nice that you waited up for me. You’re nice. I like you, Bucky.” I grinned at him goofily. Both of him.

“I like you too, Y/N.”  
  
“Really? How much? Thiiiiiiiiiiis much?” I spread my arms as wide as they would go, which meant that I had to let go of Bucky, which meant that I promptly collapsed on the floor in a fit of giggles.

“More. Now come on, up to bed.” He picked me up and kept an arm around me, noting that I was completely incapable of standing on my own without assistance.

“You like me.” I squinted at him. “And you’re smart, apart from the sleeping with the ex-girlfriend thing. Which means,” I poked him in the chest, “that I’m maybe an OK sort of person.”  
  
He smiled. “You’re not all bad. There are a couple of things about you that I like rather a lot.” 

“You’re sweet. I like you.”  
  
“Yes, doll, and I like you, too. I thought we’d already established this.”

I patted Bucky’s cheek and giggled. “You’re all spiky. Anyway, who the hell does he think he is, telling me that I need therapy because I don’t know how to deal with my emotions?”  
  
Bucky looked at me with some confusion. “Doll, I have no idea what you are talking about.”  
  
I rolled my eyes so far back in my head I swear I could see my brain. “_Loki!_ Weren’t you listening to a word I said?”  
  
“Your ex-fiancé?”  
  
“YES! Exactly. He has the emotional range of a small soapdish, and yet he has the nerve to say that _I_ am incapable of love. _I_ am unable to show emotion. It’s not true. I mean, just look at you. You’re proof.”  
  
“Proof of what, doll?”

Really, Bucky was being extremely dense tonight. “Proof that I can love someone! You’re here which means that I’m right and he’s wrong so stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Loki.” 

Bucky was extremely silent, which meant that obviously I needed to keep talking in order to fill the silence. “See? I have emotions. I’m in love, thank you very much Mr Loki Love Guru. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
  
Bucky was looking at me as if I’d grown another head. Honestly, did his ability to think cease once the clock struck twelve? Did his brain turn into a pumpkin after midnight, only to be resurrected once the sun came back up?

I inspected Bucky more closely, and realised that, based on the expression he was currently wearing, I’d probably said something that would have been better left unsaid. Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming surge of dizziness. “Ohhhhhhhh… I don’t feel so good…”  
  
“Come on, doll. Let’s get you to bed.” Bucky picked me up and carried me, bridal style, to the guest bedroom, given that my legs had decided to stop working entirely.

I leaned in close and whispered conspiratorially in his ear. “I’m drunk.”

“I kind of guessed that, doll.”  
  
I giggled. “That’s because I’ve been drinking.”

“That’s how these things usually happen.” Bucky removed my shoes and tucked me into bed, giving me a quick kiss on the forehead. “Good night, Y/N.”  
  
I lay there in the dark, waiting to fall asleep, when all of a sudden I had a horrible feeling in my stomach. Not the kind of horrible that drinking bucketloads of martinis all night causes, either. It was more as if I’d done or said something incredibly stupid. Something that I shouldn’t have said or done. But although I racked my brain, I couldn’t think of what it could possibly be.

Oh well. If things went the way they were supposed to, I would have absolutely no recollection of this night when I awoke in the morning, and could therefore happily continue with my life as if nothing untoward had happened.


	13. When Involving Others In Your Plans, Make Sure Everyone Is On The Same Page. Or At Least, In The Same Library.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You finally agree to meet Cameron, but there’s the small problem of how to keep Bucky from finding out…

To: Cameron.Klein@brooklynbulletin.com

Reply to: y/n_planning@starkadvertising.com

_Dear Cameron,_

_I must say that I was surprised to receive your invitation to lunch, given that we’ve been corresponding for nearly two years without any indication that you were ever interested in actually meeting me face-to-face._

_However, given the length of our online sparring, I feel it only right to graciously accept your invitation. I’m hoping that, upon meeting in person, neither of us feels the inevitable disappointment that these sorts of encounters invariably bring._

_At best, I hope that we can become friends. At worst, I will most likely end up dumping a glass of water over your head and vowing never to speak to you again._

_See you on Saturday._

_Y/N_

***********************************************

I spent the remainder of the week convincing myself that meeting Cameron was _not_ cheating on Bucky. I mean, it was just lunch for God’s sake. It’s not like I was going to rip his clothes off and have my wicked way with him on the table once the appetisers were finished. I was simply going to meet the man with whom I’d been having a rather extended two year email conversation, to satisfy my curiosity. Besides, we were meeting in a restaurant, in public, where everybody could see us. It’s not like I was hiding anything.

And it’s lunch, which means that there is definitely no romance involved. Obviously, Cameron just wishes to establish our friendship in person. If he was interested in me romantically, then clearly he would have requested we meet at a fancy-pants restaurant on a Friday night so that we could gaze into each other’s eyes in the candlelight before getting rip-roaring drunk in a bar somewhere afterwards, and then heading home to have wild animal sex.

Lunch dates are safe. Pedestrian. Boring. Strictly platonic. In fact, I probably shouldn’t even consider it a _date._ It’s just lunch. Lunch with a man that I may or may not have a slightly-bigger-than-appropriate crush on.

Let’s be real here. There’s a pretty good chance that, given he’s a newspaper columnist, Cameron is going to be on the wrong side of forty, bald and extremely unattractive. What’s worse, he might consider _me_ unattractive, which would just prove that there is absolutely no accounting for taste these days.

And anyway, it’s not like Bucky and I are in a committed relationship. Sure, since the sort-of-kidnapping and the sleeping-with-the-ex-girlfriend debacle, we’ve been more or less exclusive, but we’ve never actually talked about it. We’ve never sat down and actually had a deep and meaningful conversation about where we see things heading.

Come to think of it, though, Bucky has been talking a lot about stuff in the future as if he expects that I’ll still be involved with him. He’s started using ‘us’ and ‘we’ rather a lot when talking about our relationship, which frankly scares me more than a little bit. He seems to be getting awfully serious and I’m not entirely sure that I’m comfortable with it. But, as these things tend to happen, unless one of us is otherwise occupied, we spend every free minute together. It’s almost mandatory that we do so.

At breakfast this morning, he admitted what made him fall in love with me. Truth be told, he never _actually _said that he loved me. Love was never mentioned. It’s just that I asked him what his favourite thing about me was, rather facetiously.

“Your nose.”

I scrunched my nose up. “My nose?”  
  
He pointed at me. “That! The nose scrunch thing. It’s adorable. You’re like a giant snarky bunny rabbit and it makes me all gooey inside.”

What a weirdo.

Given that we live only a few streets away from each other, and that Bucky has neither expressly stated his feelings towards me nor his intentions with regard to our relationship, I have reached the conclusion that ours is a relationship of convenience rather than any actual commitment. Sure, we’re fond of each other, but if we had to commute any considerable distance then I’m not sure we’d have even got this far.

I feel that my relationship with Bucky is not actually serious for a couple of reasons. Firstly, I slept with him on the first date, which is pretty much a no-no if you want a guy to actually take you seriously. So strike one on that count.

Secondly, it would be foolish of me to consider myself committed to Bucky when he has yet to declare that _he_ is committed to _me_.

Therefore, I should not be feeling the slightest bit guilty at meeting with my email paramour for lunch. Unfortunately, I’ve been spending rather a lot of time with Father Steve for work, and all of that Catholic guilt appears to have rubbed off on me. My conscience is screaming at me that I’m doing the wrong thing. Especially because it meant that I had to cancel the plans that I’d already made with Bucky for Saturday, in order to meet with Cameron for lunch.

Of course, I couldn’t exactly _tell_ Bucky that I was ditching him in order to meet another guy for lunch, so I needed an alibi. Someone who could say that I was having lunch with them instead, in order to throw him off the scent in case he became suspicious. I needed someone who would have absolutely no problem with lying for me. Someone without a strict moral compass. That left only one option. 

I found Darcy in her office, together with Peter, who looked like he would rather be chased by a bunch of radioactive spiders that sitting where he was right now. “Did you get all of that, Parker?”

“Yes, ma’am,” squeaked Peter, standing to leave just as I entered Darcy’s office.

“Hey, Darcy.”  
  
She turned to look at me, wincing as she did so. “Hi, Y/N.”  
  
“What’s wrong with you?”  
  
Darcy grimaced. “I had a Tiffany’s wax at lunchtime.”  
  
Poor Peter turned several different shades of scarlet. I’ve never known that someone could blush in that many colours at the same time.

“And what, pray tell, is a Tiffany’s wax? Does it involve jewellery?” I asked, partly out of genuine curiosity and partly from a wicked desire to see Peter squirm. He’s a cutie patootie, but so far out of his depth when dealing with anything of even a slightly sexual nature that we all just can’t resist teasing him whenever the opportunity presents itself. Which is several times a day.

“No, just the packaging. It’s just a small square dyed Tiffany blue.” 

Peter walked into the door.

“That must have hurt,” I said sympathetically.  
  
“Not at all, I’m OK, Y/N,” he whispered.  
  
“I was talking to Darcy, not you.”

“Of course. Sorry.” Peter beat a very hasty retreat, and as soon as the coast was clear, Darcy and I burst out laughing.

“Do you think he’s still a virgin?” asked Darcy.

I pointed a finger at her. “Stop right there, Darcy. Keep your jewellery box away from Peter. He’s sweet and innocent and I’d like to keep him that way for as long as possible.”

She pouted. “Fine. Take away all of my joy. See if I care.”

I looked at her. “I need to ask a favour.”

She brightened considerably. Darcy likes it when people owe her favours. “What can I do for you?”  
  
“I’m going to tell Bucky that I’m having lunch with you on Saturday. So if you see him and he asks…”  
  
“Where are we going for lunch?”  
  
“We’re not.”  
  
“But you just said we were.” Darcy looked puzzled.

“We’re not really having lunch. I’m just telling him that we are.”

“So you’re lying to him.”  
  
I sighed. “Yes, Darcy. I’m lying to Bucky.”  
  
“Why are you lying to him?”  
  
“Because I don’t want to tell him who I’m really having lunch with, okay?”

“So if you aren’t having lunch with me, then who are you having lunch with?”

“A friend. Look, it’s not really important who I’m having lunch with. I would just prefer that Bucky didn’t know about it.”

Darcy’s eyes widened as a lightbulb went off in her head. “Oh! This is a cover-up! I’m your alibi!” I nodded, relieved that she finally seemed to grasp the situation. “OK, so I pretend that I had lunch with you so that Bucky doesn’t find out that you had lunch with your friend. Got it.”

“Thanks, Darcy. You’re a lifesaver.” I went to leave her office, when she called me back.

“Hey, Y/N, what should I tell him I ate for lunch?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Well, did I have a first course? Soup? Dessert? Oooooh, did we drink wine?”

“Um… I really don’t know, Darcy. I’m not sure it really matters.”

“So where are we going for lunch?”  
  
I pinched the bridge of my nose. This was getting more complicated by the second. “We’re going to that wine bar we usually go to for lunch. You already know what’s on the menu there. Just pick something.”  
  
“On it. You can count on me, Y/N.”  
  
I really should have asked Peter to help me. He would have been more believable.


	14. Little White Lies Set Your Pants On Fire Just As Well As Big Lies Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will you go through with your lunch date with Cameron, or will your guilty conscience get the better of you?

The panic set in while I was driving to the restaurant where I was meeting Cameron for lunch. _What the hell am I doing? I can’t meet Cameron for lunch! _My guilty conscience had grown exponentially over the past couple of days. Poor Bucky was sitting at home, probably forced to watch some boring sporting event on TV because I’d told him I was meeting Darcy for lunch, when in actual fact I was about to embark on my clandestine not-date with Cameron the newspaper columnist.

I was a bit apprehensive about finally meeting Cameron. I’d built him up so much in my mind that the reality was bound to be disappointing. He was sure to fall woefully short of my expectations. Or worse, he might very well exceed them. That was a horrible thought. Panic set in as I tried to think of a graceful way to ditch Cameron without ever having to meet him. Dammit, I didn’t have his phone number so I couldn’t text and cancel. Shit. I’d just have to go in there and make up an excuse on the spot.

In my mind, the conversation went several ways:

“Hey, Cameron. Great to finally meet you, but I don’t really want to spend any time with you. I just wanted to see if you’re cuter than my actual boyfriend, but you’re not, so thanks but no thanks. Sayonara.”  
  
“Hi Cameron. I only have two weeks to live, and I really want foie gras but they don’t serve that here so au revoir, mon ami.”  
  
“Cameron, you absolute bastard. If you’d asked me out as soon as you’d dumped your girlfriend, I might actually have an appetite now. But you didn’t, so I don’t, and it’s all your fault.”

On second thought, I could just leave a message with the maître d’ at the restaurant. It’s not as if Cameron knew what I looked like. I could totally call and say that I was stuck in traffic and _oh gee would you look at the time, looks like I’m not going to be able to make it after all, so sorry but we’ll have to cancel, better luck next time_. That was clearly the best option. So I did exactly that, thanking the powers that be for Bluetooth connectivity in my car, and immediately felt the weight lift off my shoulders.

Congratulating myself on my decision, I did an absolutely-not-illegal U-turn and drove over to Bucky’s brownstone. I rang his doorbell, but he didn’t answer. Weird. I could have sworn he told me he’d be home all afternoon, painting his outdoor furniture for his courtyard. His car was in front of the building. But he was nowhere to be found. The bastard had lied to me and had gone out somewhere without me. Rude! Never mind that I’d told him that I was going out for lunch; how dare he not be at my beck and call when I cancel my plans at the last minute. I sat on his front steps, waiting for him to come home, and definitely not sulking whilst doing so.  
  
I’d been waiting for an hour, and had very nearly convinced myself that Bucky was off doing nefarious things with Dot the Bimbo when he pulled up on his motorcycle. He was whistling a happy tune, which set my teeth on edge for some reason. He smiled when he saw me. “Hey, doll.” He picked me up and spun me around, as if he was delighted by something other than my presence.  
  


“Where have you been?” I asked him somewhat grumpily.

“Getting something to eat. I thought you were out for lunch.” He opened the door and ushered me inside.

“It was cancelled at the last minute.”

“Ah. That would explain why you’re still dressed up.”  
  
I looked down at the floral dress I was wearing. “This? This is hardly dressy. I just… don’t wear it very often.” 

“Well, you look nice. I’m glad I get to see you dressed up for a change.” He stared at me. “Why were you sitting outside my front door?”  
  
“I wasn’t going to break into your house, Bucky.”  
  
He frowned. “Don’t you still have the keys from when you were staying here?”  
  
I forgot I had his keys. “Well, I didn’t think it was right to just let myself in seeing as I’m not living here anymore. It’s against the rules.” I went to take them off my keyring, but he waved his hand at me.  
  
“Keep them, doll.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
He leaned closer to whisper conspiratorially in my ear. “Well, I’m not sure if you know this, but keys can be very useful for opening doors that are locked.”

I took the keys off my keyring and placed them on his kitchen bench. “I’m not keeping them. It’s a commitment, and I don’t think we’re at that stage yet.”  
  
“How are keys a commitment? You’ve had them for weeks and never worried about it.”

“I forgot that I had them. But now that I know they’re there, it’s a commitment.” Jeez, I thought he was supposed to be smart. It’s like he doesn’t know _anything_ about relationships.

Bucky crossed his arms across his chest. “You have commitment issues, doll.”  
  
I huffed. “No, I don’t. I’m the girl. Girls don’t have commitment issues. I just think we’re moving too fast, that’s all.”

Bucky put the keys back on my keyring and threw them in my handbag. “Y/N, keep the keys. It’s not a big deal.”  
  
‘Oh, yes it is. Now I have to give you the keys to _my_ house.”  
  
“No, you don’t,” he protested.  
  
“Yes, I do! If I don’t give you my keys, then it just confirms that you’re more committed to this relationship than I am, which is rubbish because everybody knows that it’s always the guy that has the commitment problem. I refuse to be the bad guy here. I can’t be the bad guy. I’m the girl. It’s not allowed.”

Bucky just stared at me with a combination of amusement and exasperation. “You’re a weirdo, doll. You know that, right?”  
  
“Thank you.”

***********************************************

The next morning, Bucky and I headed to the farmer’s market. I was stuffing my mouth with a chocolate croissant from the French bakery truck when we were accosted by Darcy. She spotted us before I saw her, so she was upon us before I had the chance to realise what the fuck was going on.

“Hey, Y/N!”  
  
“Hi, Darcy. You remember Bucky, don’t you?”

“Sure! We met for after-work drinks a few weeks ago. So Y/N, how did you pull up after lunch yesterday?” She winked dramatically at me. I groaned internally.

Luckily, Bucky was busy inspecting a tray of plums at the fruit stall, so he didn’t notice me gesturing for Darcy to cut it out.

“Y/N and I had such a great lunch yesterday. It was sooooo good.”

Bucky stared at her with interest. “Really? Yesterday?”  
  
“Oh, sure. Went for _hours_. I only managed to try _five_ different wines yesterday. The wine bar has over a hundred so I’m pretty sure we’re going back next weekend.”

“You had lunch with Y/N yesterday?”  
  
Darcy nodded enthusiastically. “Sure! It was great. Always nice to have a girls’ day out, isn’t it Y/N?”

I nodded half-heartedly, not really trusting myself to say anything.

“Well, I’d better go. My yoga class starts in about twenty minutes and I want to get a good spot. See you Monday, Y/N.” Darcy waved as she ran off.

Bucky looked at me. “That was… strange.”  
  
“Yeah, well, that’s Darcy for you. Her mind goes a million miles a minute. It’s a bit hard to keep up with her sometimes.”

“I thought you said your lunch was cancelled.”  
  
“It was. Darcy and I had lunch together on Thursday.”  
  
“She seemed pretty certain that it was yesterday. Come to think of it, I’m positive you told me you were meeting her for lunch yesterday.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.”  
  
“Huh.” I shrugged. “I must have gotten mixed up. This presentation for the Catholic church has scrambled my brain so much, I don’t know if I’m coming or going.”

“So who were you meant to have lunch with yesterday if it wasn’t Darcy?”  
  
“Oh, I actually had to go into the office to work on the Church account. I just got lunch at the café downstairs.”  
  
Bucky looked at me for a second, then shrugged. “OK.” And that was that.

Bucky wasn’t suspicious about the fact that I’d lied to him. His lack of suspicion made me suspicious. I got the feeling that he was hiding something from me, only I had no idea what it could possibly be.

He started whistling again, and once again it bugged me. I suddenly realised why. He only whistles when he’s had sex. We’d gotten a bit carried away this morning after he poked me in the back – without using his hands – so I could understand the whistling today. But we didn’t have sex yesterday until _after_ he’d found me waiting for him at home. So why had he started whistling yesterday as soon as he saw me?

Somebody had put a smile on his dial, but it wasn’t me. So who the hell was it?


	15. James Bond? He’s A Terrible Spy, Don’t Follow His Template For Espionage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are convinced that Bucky is hiding something from you, and are determined to find evidence of his indiscretions.

To: Cameron.Klein@brooklynbulletin.com

Reply to: y/n_planning@starkadvertising.com

_Dear Cameron,_

_I’m sure by now you’ve noticed that I failed to attend our previously pre-arranged lunch meeting on Saturday. I have no excuses to offer you – nothing that a reasonable person would find believable, that is - other than that it is a reflection of who I am as a person. _

_If for some reason you decide that you would still like to meet me in person at a time yet to be determined in the perhaps not too distant future, I will endeavour to explain my lack of attendance in more detail. I will, however, understand completely if you decide that I am no longer worthy of another nanosecond of your attention._

_In the absence of a decent excuse, please accept one of the following, which never worked for me in high school either:_

  1. _My house burned down and I was lucky to escape with my dog and my eyebrows intact;_
  2. _My dog ate my homework;_
  3. _My kidnappers decided to return and take my car because they were still unable to break into their van._

_I hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive me, but I will understand completely if you cannot._

_Miserably yours,_

_Y/N_

***********************************************

I’m pretty sure that if I was seeing a therapist, they would say that I’m transferring the guilt that I’m feeling about my almost-cheating with Cameron into a full-blown conviction that Bucky is absolutely-no-doubt-about-it cheating on me. It’s usually the unfaithful partner that becomes mistrustful of the innocent party. I’m hiding something from Bucky, therefore it stands to reason that he must be hiding something from me, too.

I was so convinced of Bucky’s transgression that I broke into his house. True, I used the keys he’d insisted I keep for the purposes of entering his house, so I guess _technically_ I wasn’t breaking in. Still, he had no idea that I was going to be there, and he was out, and it was night time, and I was entering the premises without his permission. I was already guilty of almost-cheating, why not add an actual felony to the mix? Just to keep things interesting.

I put my handbag on the island bench in the kitchen and had a look around. There was nothing of interest in the kitchen, except for the fact that Bucky actually had food in the fridge for a change. I made myself a sandwich, as I’d rushed straight over from work and hadn’t eaten dinner, and munched on it whilst inspecting the rest of the house for proof of Bucky’s infidelity.

The only room I hadn’t spent any time in was his study. Naturally, that was where I headed. His desk was empty apart from his laptop, so of course I turned it on and searched the drawers of the desk whilst waiting for it to boot up.

The first drawer held the usual assortment of stationery that desks typically hold – pens, paperclips, sticky notes, rubber bands. The next drawer held his chequebooks, bills, stamps, and, for some reason, a locket. A gorgeous, delicate, feminine locket.

Well, clearly I didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out that it wasn’t Bucky’s, so I swiped it and put it in my pocket for safe keeping.

Bucky’s laptop beeped and asked for a password. Password? What was he doing, thinking that somebody might actually want to snoop on his laptop? I thought _I _was paranoid. I switched it off again. Clearly his computer wasn’t going to be of any use to me.

I went to look in the third drawer of the desk, only to be thwarted by the fact that it was locked. Well, there you have it. Whatever secret Bucky is keeping from me is very obviously hidden in that drawer.

The phone on his desk rang, making me shriek like a girl and fall off the chair. Oh, wait, I _am_ a girl. Right. Never mind. While I was attempting to reduce my heartbeat back to its normal rate, the answering machine picked up the call.

“Hey, Bucky-bear, it’s Dot. Pick up.” He didn’t. Neither did I. The squeaky voice on the other end was imperious when it spoke again. “Call me as soon as you get this. It’s super important. You know my number. We need to talk super urgently.”  
  
I’ll bet they did.

I listened to the message again, trying to determine if there was any underlying hint of sexual innuendo in her words. There was nothing obvious, but that didn’t really mean anything. I pressed the ‘Erase’ button and voila, the message disappeared. Almost as if Dot had never called.

Alright, I’ll admit it wasn’t my finest moment, but I’d already broken into Bucky’s house and snooped in his office so by this point I think it was a little late to develop a sense of morality, don’t you?

Kneeling in front of the locked drawer, I thought about where he’d keep the key. Clearly, he’d have to keep it with him. Only an idiot would leave a key to a locked drawer lying around where anybody could find it. I knelt under the desk, trying to see if it was taped underneath. No luck. I sat in the chair and put my head on the desk, trying to think of anywhere else it would be that didn’t involve actually being in Bucky’s pocket. Suddenly, I found myself staring at the lamp on his desk.

There, staring back at me, was a small key, attached to the inside of the lampshade by a magnet.

I grabbed the key and put it in the lock. Hey presto! It fit. My hands were shaking as I turned the key. The lock opened easily. My heart was pounding…

Suddenly, I heard the front door slam shut. Shit! Someone was in the house! Had somebody else broken in? Nope, I heard keys being dropped on the kitchen island bench. _Bucky!_ What the hell was he doing home? He was an hour early!

_Shit shit shit!_ What do I do? OK, lock the drawer, put the key back, beat a hasty retreat from the office. He doesn’t know I’m here, it’s all good…

“Y/N? Are you here, doll?”  
  
_How the hell did he know I was here?_ Oh, goddammit, I left my handbag in plain sight. Good going, genius. Plus, all the stuff I’d used to make myself a sandwich was still sitting on the kitchen bench. I’m such an idiot.

“Y/N?” He was moving around downstairs, obviously looking through the house searching for me. I needed a plan. Something brilliant. But what?

I ran into his bedroom, ripping my clothes off in the process and scattering them around the room. Once only my underwear remained, I threw myself onto his bed in what I hoped was a faithful reproduction of a seductive pose, and waited expectantly. 

Bucky stood in the doorway, grinning as he leaned against the doorframe. “Well, hello there.”

“Hey, big boy,” I replied in my best breathy Marilyn Monroe impression. It was dreadful, but it just made him grin even wider.

“I thought you had to work late tonight, doll.”  
  
“I managed to get finished earlier than I thought I would. So I thought I’d come over to surprise you. Surprise!”

“Are you cold? You look cold.” He stared pointedly at my nipples.

“Um, maybe I’m just really glad to see you.” Smooth. He won’t suspect a thing.

“Doll, are you trying to seduce me?”  
  
“Is it working?” I asked brightly.

“Well, normally, if a woman is just wearing lingerie whilst lying on my bed, it usually matches.”  
  
I looked down at my beige and boring t-shirt bra, which I’d worn strictly for comfort rather than for seduction purposes. They most definitely did not match the red lace panties that covered the bottom half of my anatomy. The panties could pass for sexy, but the bra most definitely did not.

“Just one second, Bucky. Close your eyes.” He obliged, smirking slightly, whilst I removed the offending garment. I lay back in my previous position, wearing only the panties. Less is more, after all. “OK, you can open them again. Better?”  
  
“Much,” he murmured, before throwing himself on the bed and kissing me soundly.

Crisis averted. Suspicion avoided. Men are so easily distracted.

***********************************************

Detective Wilson was looking at a crack in my ceiling. He’d spent the last thirty minutes starting at it. He’d obviously gotten bored with staring at the ceiling at the precinct.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not really sure I understand what you’re telling me.”

“Which part are you having difficulty with, Detective?” I asked.

“The whole thing. All of it. I am completely bamboozled.”

“Would you like me to run through it again for you?”  
  
“Please. And this time, walk it. Start with the burglary.” Sam waited for my explanation.

“Well, it wasn’t exactly a burglary…”  
  
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Yeah, you said that earlier. But something was taken, correct?”  
  
“Yes, a locket.”  
  
He wrote this down. “OK. Any idea what the value of the locket is?”  
  
“No.”

“Was it insured?”  
  
“I have no idea. The locket isn’t mine.”  
  
“Can you describe it for me?”  
  
I nodded vigorously. “Sure. It’s platinum, about so big.” I indicated the size with my hands. “It might be vintage; the style is exquisite and doesn’t really look all that modern. It’s absolutely beautiful.” I took the locket out of my pocket and placed it on the table in front of Detective Wilson. “It looks rather a lot like this.”  
  
Sam picked up the locket. “How much like this?”  
  
“Exactly like this.”

He stared directly into my eyes. “Is this the stolen locket?”

“Yes.”  
  
“Did _you_ steal it?”  
  
“I suppose on a technicality I did. But it was by accident. I took it out of the desk drawer and put it in my pocket.”

Sam quirked an eyebrow. “You _accidentally_ stole this locket?”  
  
“Well, no. I meant to take the locket. I just didn’t mean to leave the house with it. _That’s_ the part that was an accident. See, I was about to get caught and so I had to take off my pants…”

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “And now we’re at the part where you lost me the first time. Hold up a minute. _Where_ did you get this locket?”  
  
“From Bucky’s house. I broke in.”  
  
“You broke in?”  
  
“Yes. Well, no, not exactly. See, I have keys to his house so I let myself in, only I wasn’t actually meant to be there because he thought I was going to be at work. I was only there because I knew that _he_ wasn’t going to be home.”

“You sorta-but-not-really broke into your boyfriend’s house and stole this necklace?”

“I never intended to steal it! I was just going to move it out of the desk and put it… somewhere else… I don’t really know, to be honest. But now I’m stuck with it and I have no clue as to what I should do. I’m positive that Bucky knows that it’s missing by now. Only he doesn’t know that I know that it’s gone. And he doesn’t know that I know that he knows that it’s gone.”

Sam looked bewildered. “I’m lost again.”

“You see, Bucky won’t discuss this with me because it actually belongs to another woman that he doesn’t want me to know about. I know, but he doesn’t know that I know. So that’s why I took the locket in the first place.”

Wilson shook his head. “I’m not even going to pretend that I understand a single thing that just came out of your mouth. Just tell me what I can do to help you.”

“Well, I just thought that, seeing how you’re a detective, you must have lots of experience with this sort of thing.” I looked at Sam hopefully.

“Not really. I can say with absolute certainty that I have never stolen a necklace from my boyfriend after I broke into his house.”  
  
“Fine, so it’s not exactly the same thing, but surely you’ve acquired evidence in a way that’s not entirely… well, in a way that wouldn’t really stand up in court if anybody questioned it.”

He nodded slowly. “I guess there have been occasions where I’ve been in that sort of situation. How does that relate to this?”

I looked at him as if he was stupid. “The necklace is evidence.”  
  
“Evidence of what?”  
  
“That Bucky is still involved with Dot. His ex who apparently isn’t really his ex.”  
  
“Now I’m _really_ confused.”

I sighed. “See, I need to know if there’s a way that I can use this evidence to confront Bucky about what he’s been doing behind my back, without him finding out how I got it.”

“Ah. I think I understand now.” Sam nodded sagely.

“So how do I do it?” I asked expectantly.

“Have you tried just asking him about it?”  
  
“Dammit. I was kind of thinking more along the lines of making up something.”  
  
“Such as?”

“Like, that you recovered it after receiving a tip off, and I just happen to be there when you hand it back to him, and then I can ask him why he has it in the first place.”

Sam just looked at me. “That could be difficult, given that Bucky hasn’t reported it as being stolen.”  
  
“Huh. Well, doesn’t this sort of thing happen all the time?”  
  
“Not really, kid. It’s a first for me.”  
  
I looked at Sam imploringly. “Come on, Wilson. Help me out here. I don’t want to mess everything up with Bucky. Things have been going so well between us recently.”

“Why don’t you just give the locket back to him and ask him why he has it?”  
  
“Surely there has to be another option.”  
  
Sam shrugged. “I could always arrest the thief.”

I pouted. “What do I do?”  
  
“Just come clean to him. Tell him what you did and explain why, and then ask him if he’s still involved with his ex. I’ve got to say, though, that I don’t really think Bucky’s that kind of guy. I’m sure he’ll have a good explanation as to why he had the locket in the first place, and this is all just a huge misunderstanding.”  
  
“I can’t tell him the truth! He’ll hate me!”

“If you pick the right moment, I’m sure he’ll understand.”

“Do you really think so?”  
  
Sam’s mouth quirked up at the corners. “If anybody can get away with something like this, it will be you, kid.”  
  
“Thanks.” I winced. “You know, I guess deep down I knew that I should tell Bucky. I just needed to hear it from someone like you. Someone with a bit of authority. Someone with a gun who could shoot me if I decided to make a run for it.”  
  
“Thanks, I think.”

I knew Detective Wilson was right. I knew the answer he was going to give me even before I’d asked the question, but I needed to hear it from a secular authority. If I’d asked for advice from Father Steve, I have no doubt that he would have given me the exact same answer. But I didn’t go to Father Steve for several reasons:

  1. If Father Steve found out, then by extension, God would find out. He’d provided Moses with a pretty specific commandment against stealing other people’s property, and I doubt he’d give any sort of leeway even to accidental thievery, given that He’s been doing this sort of thing for millennia;
  2. Because I don’t agree with God, it would be far too easy for me to disagree with Father Steve. Besides, Father Steve would most likely have recommended that I go to confession to absolve myself of my sins, so that was an easy out;
  3. Father Steve is a client, and has really only ever seen me in a professional capacity, and I’d really like to keep it that way. He doesn’t need to know more about my catastrophically appalling private life than is absolutely necessary. He knows enough as it is; why make it worse?
  4. I really don’t want to be on the receiving end of Father Steve’s Eyebrows of DisappointmentTM. He’d used them to devastating effect on Scott Lang a while back, which made him feel so guilty that he’d actually managed to behave himself for a little over two weeks.

Besides, Father Steve’s authority really only applies to the afterlife, not the here and now. Detective Wilson could actually arrest me if he really wanted to. And anyway, he’d requested that I keep in touch with him after my kidnapping.

So now I had to confess everything to Bucky, and await the consequences.

Well, _almost_ everything.


	16. Confession Is Meant To Be Good For The Soul, So Why Do I Feel Like Shit?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You tell Bucky about your theft. His reaction isn’t quite what you expected.

It has been said that as long as a woman picks her time correctly, she can confess anything to a man and he will forgive her transgressions. Unfortunately, nobody has ever provided any information regarding when exactly that time is. In the past, I’d always assumed that confessing during sex was perfectly fine. I’ve since discovered that this is not the case. Men do not multitask well during sex. Ladies, if you are thinking of confessing during your sexcapades, save your breath and avoid the aggravation.

It’s useless to confess after sex, either. Despite what the movies would have us believe, men do not carry on deep and meaningful post-coital discussions. After sex, men go to sleep. Orgasms take a lot out of a guy (no pun intended.)

It has also been said that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, although I’ve always thought that this was aiming way too high as far as their anatomy is concerned. But while most men do not have sex multiple times a day, no matter what they may wish otherwise, they do in fact eat several times a day.

My conscience was weighed down by the locket that had taken up residence in my handbag. I was practically bursting to blurt out everything to Bucky; well, at least everything pertaining to why I was snooping in his study in the first place. I wouldn’t confess anything more than that. I’m not a complete idiot.

In order to instigate feelings of goodwill from Bucky towards myself, I offered to cook him dinner – a pasta dish containing shrimp and vodka. Bucky loves seafood, I love vodka, and it sounded like a match made in heaven. While he was sitting at my kitchen table, beer in hand and a cheese platter within reach, I set about chopping the heads off the shrimp. I hoped it wouldn’t give Bucky any ideas. He couldn’t get _too_ mad at me while I was the one wielding the knife. Hopefully.

I would describe Bucky as astounded at my confession, except that it wouldn’t really do justice to the look of utter confusion, bewilderment and betrayal that crossed his features after hearing it. Naturally, he demanded to know why I felt the need to break into his house. I told him that I suspected that he was still seeing Dot and needed to find out for myself one way or another. He wanted to know why I didn’t just ask him, and I responded somewhat defensively that he wasn’t exactly forthcoming with the information I needed.

“Why are you so convinced that I’m still seeing Dot?” he asked with some exasperation.

“Gee, Bucky, I don’t know. It might be due to the fact that she keeps calling your house because she desperately wants to talk to you.”  
  
He stared at me with some surprise. “How do you know Dot’s been trying to call me? I only spoke to her this morning when she called me at work.”  
  
Shit.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “Y/N, how did you know that she’s been trying to call me?”  
  
“Maybe because the night I broke into your house, she called and left a message on your answering machine. I overheard it because I was in your study at the time, trying to get into the filing cabinet under your desk.”

“_Did_ you get into the filing cabinet?”  
  
“No, because that was when you arrived home and so I had to stop searching for evidence and seduce you.”

“I remember that.” His smile turned into a frown. “Wait a minute, there weren’t any messages on my answering machine that day.”

“Yes, because her message sort of got deleted.”

“How?”  
  
“Um, I erased it.”  
  
“You erased it?” He glared at me. _“You erased it?” _Bucky didn’t really seem to be taking this as well as I’d hoped he would.

“I sort of accidentally erased it.”  
  
“Why didn’t you just let me know that she’d called?”

I sighed. “Alright, when I say I accidentally erased it, I mean that I meant to erase it but I can’t be held responsible for my actions because I wasn’t in my right mind due to the paranoia I felt about you still being involved with her. I didn’t tell you she called because I didn’t want you to know that I’d been snooping in your study, and also because I didn’t feel like telling you that she’d called. But you need to realise that the locket was absolutely an accident. I mean, I meant to take it, but only out of the desk and not out of the house.”  
  
“What locket?”

_Shit._

“Doll, what locket?”  
  
“OK, I found a locket and chain in the desk drawer and I guess I was pissed off that Dot was still leaving her jewellery everywhere and so I just… took it. I can’t really even say why I did. I guess I just wanted to piss you off. Or make you think that it had gotten lost. Honestly, I was going to put it back exactly where I found it. At least, I think that’s what I was going to do, but then you came home, and then by the next morning I’d forgotten that I had it…”  
  
“It’s not Dot’s.”

“It isn’t?”  
  
“No. I didn’t even know it was gone.”  
  
_Shit shit double shit._ “Oh.” Very eloquent, Y/N. “So which one of your girlfriends _does_ it belong to? I’d like to return it to its rightful owner.” 

Bucky stared at me with a look that was not as affectionate as those that he usually directed towards me. “It belongs to you.”

I shook my head. “You must be mistaken. I don’t own a locket. You must have me confused with one of your other girlfriends.”

“I bought it for you, doll. I just hadn’t gotten around to giving it to you yet.”

“Oh.” I suddenly felt very small and insignificant. Pond scum was worthier than I was right now. “Why?”

He snorted. “Y/N, I had enough trouble convincing you to accept a set of keys to my house. I had no idea what sort of reception I’d receive if I tried to give you a piece of jewellery. I felt that I needed to build up to that sort of thing gradually.”

“No, I mean, why did you buy it for me?”  
  
“I thought you’d like it.” He noticed my miserable expression, and took a little bit of pity on me. “I got it from that seized goods auction I told you about.”

“The drug lord story you were working on for the network?”  
  
“Yeah. I thought you’d appreciate the fact that it had a sordid past. You don’t really do normal.”

“I do like it. It’s beautiful.”  
  
Bucky looked at me sardonically. “You must if you went to all the trouble of stealing it from me in the first place.” 

“I’ve got it in my bag. I’ll just go get it…”  
  
He waved his hands at me. “No, doll, just keep it. Saves me the trouble of giving it to you and then having you freak out about me giving you a piece of jewellery.”

Still feeling very small and more than slightly guilty, I said softly, “Thank you.”  
  
“You’re welcome, doll.”

I finished decapitating the shrimp and washed my hands several times to get rid of the shrimpy smell. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“You should be.”

“I must say, you’re taking this a lot better than I thought you would. I thought you’d be angry.”  
  
“I am.”  
  
“I mean, I thought you’d be angrier than you appear to be. You seem to be taking this quite well, all things considered.”

Bucky shrugged. “It’s kind of flattering. Your jealousy is sort of endearing in a weirdly psychotic kind of way.”

“Thanks.”  
  
He quirked an eyebrow in my direction. “You’re going to be more sane from now on, correct? No more paranoia?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Good.”

“So what did Dot want when she called?” I was going for nonchalant and disinterested, but I’m not quite sure I succeeded in pulling it off.

“She wanted to let me know that she’s moving for work.”  
  
I tried not to look too devastated by this news. “Where is she moving to?”  
  
“Los Angeles.”

Other side of the country. So sad. “When does she leave?”  
  
“Tomorrow.”

Wow. Detective Wilson and Father Steve were both right. Confession _is_ good for the soul. I should make the effort to do it more often.

“I hope she likes it there. So, are you still coming to the charity gala on Friday?” I started chopping herbs for the pasta.

“I’m not sure if I’ll be back in time. What time does it start?”  
  
“Back from where?”  
  
“I’ve got to do a background check on a story. I’ll be gone for a few days and I don’t get back until Friday evening.”  
  
“What time? I’ll leave your name at the door so you can swing by later.” 

“My flight doesn’t get in until seven forty-five, and by the time I’ve checked out and got a cab back here, I doubt I’d be able to get there before nine.”

“Oh. Well, you’re welcome to come if you feel like it.”  
  
“I’ll try, doll.”  
  
“So where do you need to go for this story?”  
  
“Los Angeles.” Bucky looked at me with a strange mix of wariness and amusement.

“Right.” It took every ounce of self-restraint I had to refrain from making any further comment. Or stabbing Bucky with the knife. He seemed to find it extremely funny for some reason.

It was unfortunate that he’d been so reasonable about my confession with regard to stealing the locket. Now it meant that I had no right to get angry with him about a work trip that – in what was surely the world’s most extraordinary coincidence – just happened to be taking him to the exact same city that his ex-girlfriend was moving to for work.

On the off chance that it really _was_ the world’s most extraordinary coincidence, I decided not to fly into a jealous rage. That might make Bucky angry enough that he’d go visit Dot just to spite me. If he wasn’t already planning to do so the minute he was out of my eyesight.

“When do you fly to LA?” I asked a little too casually.  
  
“Tomorrow morning.”

“Well, have a nice trip.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
I didn’t mention LA for the rest of the night. No jealousy, no mistrust, no snarky comments. I felt proud. See, I’m a mature individual who can one hundred percent handle these sorts of situations like a grown-up.

Bucky came and put his arms around my waist, looking me in the eye. “Doll, it is a complete coincidence. That’s all.”  
  
“Of course it is. Besides, Los Angeles is a big city.”

Was Los Angeles big enough that both Bucky and Dot could be in the same city at the same time and not meet up to do the horizontal tango? I tried not to picture them both together, snogging the life out of each other the minute they landed at LAX. I wasn’t going to lose a minute’s sleep over this. 

I’d wait until Bucky was back in New York at the end of the week.

Then I’d kill him. And get Nat to help me hide the body.


	17. Trust Us, By The Time We’re Finished, People Will Want Whatever You’re Selling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s time for you to pitch your campaign for the Catholic Church account. Will they be receptive or will they cast you out?

Fear is the world’s greatest motivator. Religion has been using two of the world’s biggest fears – the fear of God, and the fear of death – to great effect for well over two thousand years. However, using these fears in advertising is a new low as far as I’m concerned.

Before our meeting with the Church, the spirits of everyone in the agency was also at a low. Drunk Tony can forget the importance of a meeting and somehow breeze through it without any notes whatsoever, making up stuff as he goes along, and somehow making perfect sense. Sober Tony never forgets for even a nanosecond that the jobs of every single person employed at his agency may be dependent upon the outcome of a specific presentation. Sober Tony becomes a walking ball of anxiety, forgetting what to do in the last half hour before a meeting commences. Today, he was spending that time getting on every last one of my nerves and making me just as anxious as he was.

As a precaution, I’d asked Peter to put duct tape around the lid of every bottle of alcohol located within the premises. Tony was holding one of the sealed bottles, waving it in my direction as he bossed me around, using the bottle to emphasise the points he was making.

“Don’t be fooled by the whole man-of-God business. These guys are absolutely ruthless. Complete sharks,” he admonished.

“OK.”

Tony glared at me. “I’m serious, Y/N. The Catholic Church is one of the oldest businesses in the world, as well as one of the most successful. They didn’t get that way by being run by a bunch of wimps. Don’t forget that they had two Popes that were Borgias. Nasty family. Horrid. They killed everybody that stood in their way.”  
  
“Right.”

“Don’t be all touchy-feely with them. Go straight for the jugular. Show them no mercy because they sure as shit won’t show you any. Just cut to the chase, tell them what they need to know straight away. Cold. Hard. Facts. Be tough. Don’t present this pitch like a girl.”

“Get down to business. Be a man. Got it.”

Tony pointed at me with the bottle again, ignoring my _Mulan_ quote. “These are the guys that gave us the Crusades. Basically a way to rape and pillage their way across half the known world and still be regarded as heroes. And don’t forget the Spanish Inquisition.”  
  
“Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition today, Tony.” He didn’t appreciate the Monty Python reference.

“You realise that the future of this whole agency depends upon this presentation, don’t you?”  
  
“Thank you for the reminder, Tony. I honestly had forgotten about that, given that you’ve only reminded me of the fact every single day since we got the bloody account.”

“You’re sure everything’s ready?”  
  
I nodded. “Ready as it will ever be.”

“Great. What’s the time?”  
  
I glanced at my watch. “The meeting isn’t for another twenty minutes.”  
  
“Fuck.”

***********************************************

Most corporations tend to be run by predominantly middle-aged white men. As I had the misfortune to be born a female, I somehow failed to automatically understand the corporate rituals that most of my male colleagues seem to instinctively know, even if they don’t actually know anything else.

When meeting with a client, if they bring six people along, then you must also have at least five people, but no more than seven. If they are bringing only two people, then you cannot under any circumstances bring six. Your numbers must be similar to theirs. Neither side should greatly outnumber the other. Both must appear to be evenly matched. I can only surmise that the reason for this would be so that in the event that war breaks out in a meeting, the even numbers will ensure a fair fight and that neither side has a distinct advantage, unless one of the sides is packing weapons that the other side is unaware of.

Today’s meeting ensured that the numbers-matching ritual was strictly observed, although everybody on the client’s side appeared to be either a priest or a bishop, and therefore (I hoped) unlikely to become violent if they didn’t like what I had to tell them. We only had four people, being myself, Tony, Bruce and Rhodey, which meant that I had to find another two bodies to drag into the meeting.

Father Steve had told us that there would only be five Church representatives, including himself, and therefore we only had one person on standby for our side. Darcy Lewis was always available and willing to fill a seat at a moment’s notice. She looks the part, and her job title is long and impressive and important-sounding, and clients therefore generally believe that she has a purpose at our meetings, despite that not actually being the case.

The second body we convinced to join us – after our receptionist advised us in a horrified whisper that there were not five, but _six_, men of the cloth waiting for us, because Father Steve had _lied to us_ – was Scott Lang. Peter managed to find a spare business shirt in Tony’s office and I bullied Scott into wearing it over his incredibly-not-appropriate-for-meeting-priests t-shirt which read _Y’all Need Jesus_. Honestly, I’m surprised he hasn’t been struck by lightning yet. The man is an absolute philistine. I then ignored his whines of protest while I attacked his hair with a brush and a copious supply of hair product which Peter found stashed in the staff bathroom. Once I’d stuffed him into a spare suit jacket of Rhodey’s, Scott actually looked more than halfway presentable. He’d be an attractive specimen if he could be bothered making an effort with his appearance once in a while. And maybe had a personality transplant. The guy is more abrasive than sandpaper.

“Now, Scott, remember what you promised me.” I’d threatened to pluck out his nostril hairs one by one if he even thought about embarrassing me today.  
  
He sighed in defeat. “I will not, under any circumstances, speak unless spoken to first.”

“Correct. Now get in there.”

Once I found myself in the same room as the priests, my nervousness disappeared. As a collective group, they seemed friendly, almost fatherly, rather than terrifying. I managed to get through the presentation, outlining the research findings and the recommendations we based on them, without saying anything that was likely to send me to hell whilst in the vicinity of so many religious men.

It was only once I’d presented the strategy that we would work from the campaign, and was met with blank stares from every priest present – with the exception of Father Steve, of course, because Father Steve understands _everything_, but is the wrong person for me to focus my attention on as I am likely to go weak at the knees and start swooning – that I realised that I may, in fact, already be in Hell.

“That’s certainly… interesting.” Father Nicholas Fury sat next to Father Steve, and his was the only name I remembered from the introductions that were made at the beginning of the meeting. He was also the first priest that I’d ever seen with an eyepatch, which made him seem extremely cool and only slightly intimidating. I thought he’d make an excellent pirate if he ever decided that the priesthood was too boring.

“That’s interesting” means one of three things in client speak:

  1. I don’t understand anything that you just said;
  2. I hate it;
  3. I don’t understand anything that you just said, and I hate it.

It wasn’t the reaction that I was hoping for.

“I’m just not sure that it’s…right… for us,” Father Nicholas continued. “We thought your approach would be more… modern. It’s completely different to the other faith-based marketing that you showed us when we first discussed this with you.”  
  
“That’s because the Catholic Church _is_ different, Father. If you try to present yourselves as modern and sophisticated, or warm and fuzzy, there is a good chance that it will actually work against you, rather than in your favour. The Catholic Church isn’t any of those things and it would be foolish for us to try to portray you in that way.”

Father Nicholas frowned. “It doesn’t seem very inviting.”

“To be honest, neither does Catholicism. Look, our job is to get people through the door for you. Once that happens, the rest is up to you and the man upstairs. But there is no point in trying to get them through the door by any means necessary. We can’t present Catholicism as a modern, forward-thinking, progressive religion when it isn’t one. It’s a hardline religion, hence the hardline approach.”  
  
One of the bishops spoke up. “Could we possibly soften the approach just a tad?”

I shook my head. “Only if you’re willing to soften the religion as well. The marketing message we develop needs to align with the consumer’s experience of the Catholic Church. We could say whatever we want to get people interested, but if they find that the Church doesn’t match the advertising, then they won’t return. Worse, they’ll think that they’ve been conned and will never trust you again, and will then tell others not to trust you either. You’ll lose even more followers. The brand we build needs to be consistent with the product we’re selling.”

“Your point is fair, but it makes us seem rather heavy-handed,” replied Father Nicholas.

“Well, you guys kind of are the heavies of Christianity. I understand that you’re scared of polarising the market. But honestly, I kind of think you need to. Instead of trying to cover up the fact that you are an old-fashioned, hardline religion, we can make that your strength and build up the brand around it. It won’t matter how attractive your ads are, there are always going to be people who won’t want to buy what you are selling. You can’t be everything to everybody.”  
  
There were a couple of nods, and more than a couple of pouts from the bishops opposite. I soldiered on. “The research indicates that there are plenty of people out there who want to be told exactly what they should think and how they should act and what they should be doing with their lives. _They_ are the ones you need to be targeting. If you want to sell the church, this is the way you need to go. If you want to be seen as nice guys, you need a PR firm, not an ad agency.”

“We already did that,” Father Nicholas said.  
  
“Did it work?”  
  
“No,” he admitted.

“Well, there you go.”  
  
The bishop spoke up again. “But it’s not a true representation of the faith. You’re basically telling people that they should go to church on the off chance that God is real, and that He will send them to Hell if they don’t. That’s not what faith is about at all.”

“True, but neither is hiring an advertising agency to sell the Church.” Tony gave me a look which indicated that he thoroughly approved of the fact that I was, metaphorically speaking, kicking holy butt.

Father Nicholas chuckled. “Do you believe in God?”  
  
“Do you believe that question is relevant?” I shot back.  
  
“I’m curious. Humour me.” Father Nicholas’s eye twinkled.

“Alright. If you’re talking about an all-seeing, all-knowing higher power that watches every move I make, then no, I don’t believe in God. I believe in Santa Claus in that case. But if you are talking about a non-emotional, supportive, creative source and balancing force, then I admit I’m open to the possibility of _something_ like that existing. Although I may be confusing that force with the one from the original _Star Wars_ trilogy, which, let’s face it, is just as believable.”  
  
Rather than being offended, Father Nicholas just chuckled even more. Even the bishop smiled. Taking courage from this, I continued. “Look at it logically. Me not being a believer actually works in your favour. It means I can remain objective, which means I can effectively sell the Church because I can separate myself from it in a way that you can’t.”

“That makes a lot of sense. And after all, that’s the whole reason we’re here in the first place,” Father Steve said. Priest or no priest, I could have kissed him.

“That’s true, I suppose,” Father Nicholas conceded. “You’ve certainly given us plenty to think about.”

“And we have the research to support our findings,” Tony piped up.

The bishop nodded. “The numbers are certainly impressive.”

That seemed to indicate that the meeting was over. Father Steve and most of the other priests were already halfway out the door, but Father Nicholas and the bishop were still in the conference room, whispering furiously to each other.

“Is there something else you need, Father?” I inquired.  
  
Father Nicholas looked slightly sheepish. “Well, we just thought… well, we heard that Mr Stark could get good tickets to things – things that it’s quite difficult to get tickets to – and we were just wondering, if it wasn’t too much trouble…”  
  
Tony’s ears pricked up. “What do you want to go and see?”  
  
I was surprised when the bishop confessed what it was he wanted to see. My surprise grew when the other priests indicated that they would also like to go. Tony also wanted to go, but that didn’t surprise me in the slightest.

The biggest surprise was that he expected me to go as well.


	18. How Dare You Be So Goddamned Attractive When I’m Trying To Be Mad At You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is still in Los Angeles, which leaves you fuming about your single status at the charity gala.

In the swanky terraced garden of the house of a former senator, Natasha was doing her best not to dislocate her eyeballs whilst surreptitiously pretending not to look at all the beautiful people surrounding us. Manhattan socialites are a spectacle unto themselves. Lots of sparkling jewels, low cut gowns showing off designer cleavage, and impressive face lifts that almost allow the faces of the ladies in question to show expressions other than permanent surprise. We don’t do fake tans and blonde hair extensions in New York. We’re classy like that.

“You look like you’re from Hicksville, Idaho,” I hissed in Nat’s ear.

“What are you talking about, Y/N?”  
  
“You keep pretending to listen to me while looking around the room to see if you can find somebody more interesting to talk to.”  
  
Nat smirked. “Well then, start saying something interesting.”

I normally avoid charity events like the plague. However, on occasion I receive an invitation from our media department that is for a truly worthwhile cause that I cannot feign disinterest in, and so I find myself accepting and turning up to places where I really have no right to be. Tonight’s charity du jour was raising funds for orphans in Romania. I wasn’t sure why Romania was currently flavour of the month, but I didn’t make the rules.

I wrinkled my nose in distaste at the ostentatious display of wealth surrounding us. “God, rich people at these things are like the Dementors from Harry Potter. They suck up everybody’s attention, and most of their common sense as well, and the richer the person is, the more they suck from everybody else. It’s so depressing.”

Nat frowned at me, and then at her glass, which contained barely a mouthful of wine. “Why is there so little wine in this glass?”  
  
Clint shrugged. “It’s a wine tasting, babe.”

  


“There’s not enough in here for me to actually taste. I’m going to have to taste a hell of a lot more in order to get my money’s worth,” Nat complained.

“You know, this is a charity event, but I get the impression you aren’t feeling very charitable right now,” I said, downing my measly mouthful of wine. “Especially given the fact that the tickets didn’t cost _you_ anything, because _I_ was the one that paid for them.”

“So, did you invite Bucky?” Clint asked. Nat elbowed him in the ribs.

“Why yes, Clinton, I did just so happen to extend an invitation for tonight’s festivities to our dear friend Mr Barnes. However, I feel that the poor dear will be far too exhausted to attend. You see, he’s been fairly busy for the last week in Los Angeles, ostensibly for work but I have a very strong inkling that ‘work’ included visiting his ex-girlfriend, who just coincidentally happened to move to Los Angeles at the exact same time as he was going to be there. In fact, he was so busy that he didn’t even have thirty seconds to spare to call me. Not even once. So I very much doubt that he will be turning up tonight.”  
  
Bitter, me? Honey, lemons ain’t got nothing on me. I’ve got bitter down to a fine art.

“Why do guys do that, anyway?” I ranted. “Promise that they are going to call you, and then not call? Why not just admit that they _won’t_ call and save everybody the aggravation?”

“Maybe he was busy,” Clint said.

“Oh, of course he was. Undoubtedly.” I poked Clint in the chest. “I _knew_ you’d stick up for him. Why do guys always do that?”

“Why do guys always have to be the one to call? Why couldn’t you call him instead?” poor Clint whined.

“Given the circumstances, I elected not to call him. It’s not like I was going to miss him or anything. Alright, so _maybe_ I sat by the phone all week like an idiot, but seriously, any guy who prefers women containing more plastic than the Mattel factory doesn’t deserve to be missed.”

“What makes you so sure that he’s not going to turn up?” Clint persisted.  
  
“Because women just know these things, Clint. He pretty much told me that he wasn’t going to be back in time. Ergo, he won’t be turning up. Why do you keep asking me if he’s going to turn up?”  
  
Clint gestured behind me with his chin. “Because he just turned up.”

“Oh.” I turned around to notice Bucky speaking to the attendant at the door, who was dutifully scanning the guest list for his name. “What the fuck is he doing here?”  
  
Nat gave me a dose of her patented ‘cognitive recalibration’, which is basically just a smack to the back of the head. “You invited him, dumbass. Remember?”

The booming voice of the auctioneer was heard across the garden just as Bucky reached us. The wealthy mob headed towards the voice, eager to commence bidding outrageous sums of money for completely hideous objects that they would later pretend they couldn’t possibly live without, which meant that there was a great deal of shouting, thus making it impossible for us to speak to each other without shouting ourselves.

Bucky was the main person that I wanted to shout at, especially because he seemed to show absolutely no remorse for his total failure to call me while he was in LA. Instead, he displayed rather a lot of interest in the dress I was wearing.

When the first item had sold for a few thousand, he leaned over and whispered in my ear, “That’s a different look for you, doll.”

“Meaning?”  
  
“Nothing. Just noting that usually you’re covered in more fabric than you are right now.”

I frowned. “You don’t like my dress?”  
  
“I didn’t say that, doll,” he replied, that panty-melting smirk on his face. It’s exceedingly difficult to stay mad at Bucky when he’s being all cute and flirtatious and dressed in a tux. Bucky Barnes in a tux is a thing of beauty. He’s movie star handsome and totally swoon-worthy. It’s very unfair.

“Shut up, Barnes,” I huffed. He grinned and wrapped an arm around my waist.

After several expensive fine wine collections, day spa packages, five-star restaurant packages, and various art works had been auctioned off, and Bucky had made some further flirty comments regarding my dress, the evening came to a close. Now that the charity involved had no further means of wringing money from the wealthy, we were no longer welcome. We realised this once the host turned off the lights in a last ditch attempt to hint to everybody that it was time to get lost.

Nat and I waited at the front of the house while Clint and Bucky got their vehicles from the valet parking.

“Well, you sure told him off for not calling you while he was away,” Nat grinned.  
  
“I’ll give him a piece of my mind later,” I said primly.  
  
“Of course you will. You started giggling and being all girly the second he turned up.”

“I did not!” I stared at her in horror. “Did I?”

Nat was right. As usual. I didn’t speak to Bucky, firmly or otherwise, about his lack of contact while he was in LA. He collapsed in his favourite armchair the instant we got back to his house. He was exhausted after his week away, and as long as I didn’t dwell on the possible reasons that may have contributed to his exhaustion, I was prepared to remain in a charitable mood.

On a whim, I reached under my dress, pulled down my panties, and threw them across the room. Bucky sat up a bit straighter, miraculously seeming to find a little bit more energy.

I hitched up the skirt of my dress and straddled him. “Don’t worry,” I whispered. “You don’t have to do a single thing.”

It was at this point that Bucky told me that he’d missed me while he was in LA, that he was glad he was home, and that he was _really_ glad he’d decided to attend the charity gala. He may also have taken the Lord’s name in vain several times.

I was happy, too. Maybe this was the secret to a successful relationship. Ignore anything you find inconvenient – such as Bucky not calling me the whole time he was away, and me still with the suspicion that he was keeping secrets from me – and you can believe whatever the hell you want to, which means you can be happy. It’s a bit like religion in that respect, I guess. However, I had my doubts that this kind of happiness could really last all that long.

At any rate, women aren’t supposed to ask men why they didn’t call. If you don’t ask, then men wonder _why_ you don’t ask, which makes you mysterious. And being mysterious makes men call you.

Trust me on this one.


	19. Why Did The Chicken Cross The Road? To Get Away From This Insanity.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected source divulges the history of the locket you ‘stole’ from Bucky, but you end up feeling even more confused than before.

One of the superheroes in our marketing department had managed to score eight last-minute tickets to Saturday’s hockey game, in the corporate seats of a news magazine that we represent. Thus, I found myself at Madison Square Garden on a Saturday afternoon, sipping beer from a plastic cup, surrounded by Father Steve, Father Nicholas, a couple of other priests, two bishops and an extremely sober Tony while we watched the New York Rangers. God’s earthly representatives were also sipping beer from plastic cups. Tony had iced tea as he was on his yearly detox, but he appeared to forget that he was punishing himself with a non-alcoholic beverage, because his face expressed extreme disappointment every time he took a sip.

I’m not much of a hockey fan – if I absolutely have to watch a sport, I’d rather watch baseball – but attending any sort of sporting event with potential clients, especially male clients, is second only to playing golf with them as the thing which is most likely to turn them from _potential_ clients into _actual_ clients.

For some reason which I didn’t understand, play appeared to have stopped completely as all the players were just standing around on the ice. “What’s going on? Why has the game stopped? Is it finished already?”  
  
“They’ve paused for a commercial break,” Father Steve explained.

“They stop playing for commercials? Is nothing sacred? No wonder everybody hates advertising,” I muttered. Father Steve gave a sympathetic chuckle.

As soon as play resumed, two opposing players suddenly threw away their sticks, took off their gloves, and commenced beating the snot out of each other. As it was difficult to successfully throw punches whilst attempting to balance on thin metal blades on ice, they ended up wrestling each other. I wondered why the referees were circling around and just watching them rather than putting an end to the nonsense, and Father Steve explained that the refs couldn’t actually stop them unless one or both of the players ended up on the ground. The crowd, including the priests surrounding me, were cheering rather loudly. Father Nicholas, in particular, seemed to find a great deal of delight in every punch that was thrown by the Rangers player towards the opposition one. I didn’t realise that priests were so bloodthirsty. I wondered aloud why they didn’t just attend a boxing match if they liked fighting so much. Father Steve wryly noted that boxing was barbaric, whereas hockey was considered much more civilised.

Suddenly, I noticed that someone in the corporate box next to us appeared to be waving in our direction rather frantically. Before I could blink, the man was making his way over to our box. I recognised him as Luis, one of my sort-of kidnappers. The thought of introducing my kidnapper to the priests filled me with unspeakable horror, so I hastily excused myself and waited for Luis outside. He looked pleased.

“I thought that was you,” he said brightly.

“What are you doing here?” I hissed.

“We’re always here. We’re watching our player. That one down there, he’s ours.” He pointed to one of the Rangers players.

“You own a player? Are you allowed to do that?”  
  
Luis shrugged. “Well, my boss owns him. Mr Pym, who runs our business, owns lots of sports players, ya know what I mean?” He looked with extreme curiosity at the group of men I’d just left.

The cameras covering the game had also displayed an unhealthy amount of interest in the men of the cloth. Every few minutes, the priests and bishops would appear on the big screen, and the crowd would roar in appreciation. The Catholic Church was more popular than they’d been in decades.

As it turned out, it was the coverage of the clergy that had alerted Luis to my presence in the first place. One camera had zoomed in for an extreme close-up of the ridiculously photogenic Father Steve, lingering adoringly on him for what seemed an excessive amount of time, and as a result, my right side (which, I’ll admit, is my better side) was also on screen for several seconds.

I grabbed Luis’ arm. “Did you want to grab a beer at the bar?”  
  
“Sure! Wow, you’re here with a lot of priests,” he said. I didn’t bother responding.

We took our seats at the bar, and Luis noticed the locket I wore around my neck. His eyes widened. “You stole this.”

“No, I didn’t. Well, alright, yes I did, but after that it was given to me officially.”

Luis wore a look of confusion. “I know this necklace. How did you get it?”

I told him where Bucky had obtained the necklace – from a police auction of goods that had been seized from drug dealers.

Luis nodded. “It’s one of a kind. I know who it used to belong to. There’s a story behind it, ya know what I’m sayin’?”

I very rarely knew what Luis was saying.  
  
“What kind of story?” I was glad it was Luis that had spotted me. I was pretty sure Dave wouldn’t be giving me the time of day, let alone start blabbing about a locket that he probably shouldn’t really know anything about.

“It’s a love story. Real sad. I’ll tell you over a beer.” He tapped on the bar and ordered two beers, which arrived fairly promptly, given the number of customers lined up at the bar. It was also ‘on the house’ according to the bartender. I assumed Luis’ boss must have a fair amount of clout for one of his goons to receive such great service.

“It’s the story of José and Conchita, and Carlos.”  
  
“Carlos was their son?”  
  
“No, he was a chicken. A pet. See, José bought him for luck. When Carlos was around, the police never came.”

“Why would the police come?”  
  
Luis looked at me. “That’s part of the story, chica.”  
  
“Sorry. Please, go on.” 

“José really liked Carlos, see? He let him live in the house and everything.”  
  
“And Conchita had a problem with that?”  
  
“The chicken was there first. Conchita came later. José asked his cousin in Mexico to find a wife for him. Apparently getting a wife in Mexico is really easy. Here, not so much. You got a husband?”  
  
I spat out a mouthful of beer. “Oh, dear God, no.”  
  
Luis nodded as if I’d just proven his point. “See? Anyway, José’s cousin found Conchita in Mexico and sent him a photo. Naturally, Jose wanted to marry her once he saw her.”  
  
“Did she want to marry him?”  
  
“She wanted to come to America. She thought it would be like in the movies, right? So she came, and they got married, and they were happy. But then, Conchita stopped being happy. José repaired shoes, worked in a shop. Day in, day out, every day was the same. He’d go to work, then come home. They had a nice house with a chicken, but Conchita didn’t want that.”

I touched my locket. “He bought this to make her happy?”  
  
Luis shook his head. “He didn’t buy it. It was payment from one of his customers.”  
  
“He got this for fixing someone’s shoes?”  
  
“Not fixing shoes. Drug deal. Why else would he need the chicken?”

I was confused. “Drugs?”  
  
“Yep. The shoe repair shop was a front for drug deals. Coke. You dropped off your shoes to be resoled, pick them up, pay a little bit too much, find a little something left in the shoe. Pretty good business. But José never told Conchita. He thought that way, if he ever got caught, she couldn’t get into trouble, right?”

Luis sighed, then continued with his story. “Conchita said chickens should live in the yard, not in the house. She didn’t understand why a shoe repairman would need so much good luck. Carlos didn’t like Conchita, either. He was used to the high life, and she took away his standard of living and expected him to actually start acting like a proper chicken. Outrageous, you feel me? Anyway, one day, Conchita didn’t shut the gate properly, and Carlos got out. He tried to cross the road, and got hit by a truck. No more chicken. No more luck. Then the police came, and José was arrested.”

“Just like that?”  
  
“Just like that,” Luis nodded.  
  
I sipped my beer. “I’m not sure I believe in good luck chickens.”

“It doesn’t matter whether you believe or not. _José_ believed. When Carlos died, all of his luck vanished. The police came. He went to jail. They sold all of his stuff. You got the necklace. End of story.”  
  
“What happened to Conchita?”

“She left.”  
  
“Back to Mexico?”  
  
“Minnesota.” Huh. Might as well have been Mexico.

“So why didn’t José try to stop her? Didn’t he love her?”  
  
“How was he gonna stop her from jail? Besides, it didn’t matter whether he loved her or not. He learned his lesson. His wife was nothing. The chicken was everything.”  
  
I snorted. “José should have told her the truth.”  
  
Luis stared at me. “She should have been happy with what she had, but instead she kept looking at what she didn’t have. She was happy with José, she just didn’t see it. Stupid.”

“That’s not really fair.”  
  
“Life isn’t fair, chica. It doesn’t matter in the end if he kept secrets from her or not. Conchita liked José, and he liked her, right? That should have been enough. It’s the only thing that matters. You should remember that. It’s good advice.”

Of course, I failed to see the moral of the story that Luis had just relayed to me, which is that all that really matters in any relationship is ‘she likes him, he likes her’. Sometimes, you already have everything that you really want but you fail to realise it. Sometimes people keep things from you for reasons that aren’t really all that bad. It was pretty useful stuff, especially considering what happened later. Well, it _would_ have been useful if I’d actually really paid attention to what Luis was telling me. The problem is, I’m not terribly perceptive about things that pertain to love, especially in my own life. I’m pretty dense when it comes to feelings.

When I finally returned to the corporate box, a lot of screaming broke out. At first I thought that the priests were just extremely excited that I had returned, until I realised that one of the Rangers players had scored a goal with about thirty seconds of play left, and most people in the stadium were on the side of the Rangers.

The final siren went, and I stood with the rest of the crowd and cheered my heart out. Father Steve looked at me with merriment dancing in his azure eyes. “Have you suddenly developed a passion for hockey?” he asked with some amusement.

“Oh, dear Lord, no. I’m just ecstatic that it’s finally over.” Father Steve laughed so hard that he collapsed into his seat, his hand over his left boob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if I got the details for the hockey team wrong - I'm from Australia and we don't really do ice hockey here :P


	20. What’s The French Word For Asshole? Because Excuse My French, But You’re One Of Those.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You discover the truth about Cameron – with potentially devastating consequences.

To: Cameron.Klein@brooklynbulletin.com

Reply to: y/n_planning@starkadvertising.com

_Dear Cameron,_

_Thank you very much for your most recent email. As much as it was appreciated, especially after I stood you up, I must ask you: What on earth has gotten into you? Have you ingested a truckload of Prozac? Started day drinking? I’m not sure you’ve ever been what I can only describe as flirtatious. But you seem happy, which makes me happy, and I suppose that’s really all that matters, isn’t it?_

_To answer your questions, in the order you asked them:_

  1. _Eighteen;_
  2. _No, not on a plane. But once on the rooftop of my boyfriend’s apartment while a plane flew overhead, so does that count?_
  3. _Red lace;_
  4. _No, I cannot run away to Romania with you. Not right now, anyway. Maybe another time;_
  5. _Yes, I think so. Why?_

_Yours in confusion,_

_Y/N_

***********************************************

Tony informed me at 5.30 on Friday evening that he had scheduled a media interview for 6pm that very same evening. The interview was to discuss the religious research study that our agency was conducting. Tony wanted me to handle things, because ‘he had better things to do on a Friday night’.

Tony often requested that I fill in for him for these sorts of things whenever he can’t be bothered, which is most of the time, so I wasn’t overly concerned. OK, so this was a newspaper interview, and newspaper journalists are notorious for printing things that you’ve said totally out of context, editing things to make it sound like you are completely devoid of even basic intelligence or common sense, or making you sound like an absolute idiot. Often all of this occurs in the first sentence of their article.

Tony has a habit of throwing me into these sorts of situations at the last minute, and usually things are much more dire by the time I find out about them. Like the time he asked me to give a ‘short speech’ to ‘a bunch of marketing students’, only for me to walk into the ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria and find myself fronting fifty MBA graduates from one of the country’s most prestigious universities, as well as a significant number of Fortune 500 CEOs, COOs, CFOs and any other Cs that lead large corporations in America. In comparison, dealing with a single newspaper journalist should be a doddle.

That was a gross misjudgement on my part.

It wasn’t until I got to the corner of the meeting place that I realised that Tony hadn’t told me who I was actually supposed to be meeting with. I placed a distress call to Peter, who promised to sweet talk Tony’s ruthlessly efficient PA, Pepper Potts, into giving him the necessary information. He called back a couple of minutes later. A table had been booked under the name of the journalist, and – without giving me any time to brace myself for the subsequent shock – the name of said journalist was one Cameron Klein.

Peter started to tell me which newspaper Cameron was from, but I interrupted him to advise that I was familiar with his work. I thanked Peter and ended the call just as I reached the parking lot of the restaurant.

It was curiosity rather than bravery which finally compelled me to open the door to the restaurant. I informed the hostess that I was there for the reservation under Klein. She confirmed the booking and huffily advised that ‘my party’ was awaiting my arrival. I followed her to the table, my heart pounding more erratically with every step. This was it. I was finally going to meet Cameron, my email crush/nemesis/whatever it is we actually are. Every fantasy image I’d ever created of him, every imagined meeting, every pretend conversation I’d had with him, all raced through my mind as I made my way through the restaurant.

When I arrived at the table, I can honestly say that Cameron was not at all what I expected. He was so very far from what I expected that I had to grab onto the back of the chair in front of me to stop myself from collapsing in shock.

My only saving grace was that Cameron appeared to be just as thunderstruck as I was. He’d started to get up from his seat as I made my way to the table, only to pause halfway, so that he was now frozen in a half-crouching position, his mouth opening and closing in a way that was reminiscent of a goldfish.

My first meeting with Cameron would have been a pleasant experience under other circumstances. He was extremely attractive, with dark hair and blue eyes and a sexy five o’clock shadow. His ass looked great in jeans.

To my extreme annoyance, he recovered from the shock much more quickly than I did, and with a grace that I found more than a little inappropriate given the situation, he stood and came to my side in one smooth motion. 

“Hey there,” he said, pressing an affectionate kiss to my temple before loosening the death grip I had on the chair, pulling it out and ushering me to sit down upon it before returning to his own seat. Once there, he had the decency to look slightly uncomfortable. He rubbed the back of his neck. It’s a habit of Bucky’s. He does it when he’s at a loss for words. I usually find it charmingly quirky but now it was just irritating.

The drinks waiter came to our table, no doubt sent our way as a matter of urgency by the hostess upon registering the expression of shocked distress I wore. My mind recovered enough to allow me to order a vodka tonic. Bucky ordered a Scotch. Judging by the way he drained it, he’d need another one in very short order.

“This is a… pleasant surprise,” Bucky said. It didn’t sound sincere.

We stared at each other for a few moments until my complete loss of words recovered enough for me to utter one which I deemed entirely appropriate.

“Asshole.”

The drinks-waiter froze at my comment, before hastily retreating back to the safety of the bar where he could watch the unfolding drama without fear of being caught in the crossfire.  
  
I downed my drink. “Asshole,” I repeated. The alcohol hadn’t changed my opinion.

“You don’t mean that, doll.”  
  
“No, I’m pretty sure I do, _Cameron.” _I glared at him.

Bucky sighed. “You weren’t supposed to find out this way.”

“Was I meant to find out at all?”  
  
“Of course you were! Just not tonight. I thought I was meeting with Tony tonight.”  
  
“Oh, was he in on this? I’ll be sure to have words with him on Monday.” I continued to stare at Bucky with what I hoped was a neutral expression, but I was pretty sure I could give Nat’s Resting Murder Face a run for its money. “So, what, you moonlight as a shitty newspaper columnist? Does the TV station not pay you enough?”  
  
“I started out as a newspaper journalist.”

I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “Is Bucky even your real name? Or is it actually Cameron?" 

“Cameron’s a pseudonym. My real name is James. Bucky is just a nickname that my friends call me.”

“So when were you going to tell me?”  
  
“I’ve been trying to tell you for months now, doll.”

I snorted with derision. “You can’t have been trying too hard.”

“You would have found out if you’d managed to get into my desk drawer that night you broke into my house.”

“How?” I frowned, then gasped as the realisation hit me. “Oh! Your column.”  
  
Bucky nodded. “Yep. My column. Your emails. I printed them all out and kept them.”

My frown deepened. “Wait. You knew it was me right from the start?”

“From that first night I met you at the bar.”  
  
I had a feeling a frown was going to be permanently etched onto my features. “At the bar? How the hell did you know from the bar?”  
  
“From the pen you threw at me. It had the name of the agency on it. You always emailed me from the agency. And I knew you’d be there.”

“How did you know I’d be at that particular bar that night?”  
  
“Because you told me. Well, actually, you told Cameron.”

“So you deliberately went to that bar for your birthday just to meet me? It wasn’t just a random meeting caused by me hitting you in the head with a pen?”

“Correct. But the pen helped a lot,” he admitted.

So I hadn’t really met Bucky by chance. He’d planned the entire interaction. That realisation hurt a lot more than it probably should have.

I glared at Bucky. “Everything makes so much sense now. I thought I’d finally found somebody who understood me completely, but it was only because I’d already explained everything about myself to him, in writing, before he’d ever even met me. I _knew_ it was too good to be true.”

“I’m not the only one that was keeping Cameron a secret, doll.”  
  
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I glared even more.  
  
“Just that neither of us can say we are completely blameless in this whole mess. I didn’t tell you that I was Cameron, but you didn’t say anything to me about Cameron at all.” Bucky grabbed my hand with his prosthetic one. “Doll, this doesn’t have to be a bad thing. It doesn’t need to get blown out of proportion.”  
  
“I think it’s a little late for that, Bucky,” I snarled, snatching my hand out of his grasp. I stood up. I was proud that I’d managed to keep myself together up to this point, but I didn’t want to push my luck, and thought that it would be best to make my exit before I lost my cool entirely.

“Y/N, please sit down,” Bucky pleaded.

“Thanks, but no thanks. I really need to get home. It’s been fun, but I think my mind has been fucked with quite enough for one day. It’s getting late, and I have places to be. Such as not here.”

I turned on my heel and swept off dramatically, in what was originally looking like it was going to be one of the defining moments of my romantic career.

Unfortunately, because of the pristine condition of the glass doors of the restaurant – and because this is me we are talking about - I failed to notice that said doors were shut. Thus, I walked into them with a resounding thud, falling to the floor in an undignified heap. Bucky rushed over to me, as did several of the waitstaff. So much for my dramatic, dignified exit which was intended to leave Bucky heartbroken at my departure. There really is a God, and He has a twisted sense of humour.

After I’d been offered water, an ice pack, and – inexplicably, although deliciously – an enormous slice of chocolate cake, the waitstaff left me to recover from my humiliation. I suddenly found myself on the other side of the door with which I’d so unceremoniously collided only moments before. Bucky had also made it through, completely unscathed. _Because of course he did, the bastard._ He seemed genuinely concerned that I may have a concussion, given that I was dizzy and slightly confused, but he was also having great difficulty suppressing the grin that was threatening to overtake his face.

“It’s not funny!” I said. Of course, that’s not entirely true. I’m honest enough to admit that if it had happened to anybody else, I’d be the first one rolling on the floor with undisguised glee.

Bucky carefully rearranged his expression to one of more compassion. “Of course not, doll.” I heard the unspoken _‘It’s fucking hilarious’_ that he very politely failed to utter. “I’ll take care of the bill. You’ll be OK by yourself for a moment, won’t you?”

I nodded slowly, and then the moment his back was turned I headed to my car. If I couldn’t make a dramatic exit, the next best thing was sneaking off while he wasn’t looking. I shouldn’t really have been surprised when Bucky came back just as I was getting into my car.

He leaned on the driver’s side door. “Are you OK, Y/N?”

“Fine.”  
  
He looked like he didn’t believe me. “Do you want me to follow you home? Make sure you get there safely?”  
  
“No.” Bucky stood there, looking at me as if he was going to protest. “I’m fine, Barnes. I don’t need you to check up on me. Ever again.”

Bucky didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t argue with me as I started the car. He stood in the carpark, watching after me as I drove away. In spite of my possible concussion, and the emotional blow to my psyche, I managed to drive home without killing myself or anybody else. I was quite proud of that fact. When I got home, all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and lock myself away for all eternity, never to be seen again.

What I did instead was get dressed and attend a party.

From what I can remember, I had a great time at Darcy’s birthday party.

I remember wearing a lot of glittery makeup to compensate for the fact that I felt like complete and utter shit. I wore a shimmery black top and skinny jeans and a towering pair of black sequinned stilettos to complete the illusion that I was a well put together twenty-something woman who had her life completely under control.

I remember going to a bar in the Upper East Side, and that it was named after a girl. I remember the bartender plying me with copious amounts of vodka and encouraging me to dance on the bar. I don’t remember whether I did, in fact, dance on the bar, but as far as I know there is no incriminating evidence on social media of me having done so.

I remember meeting both a lawyer named Matt and a neurosurgeon called Stephen, arm wrestling with both of them, and then holding an entire conversation with them while the three of us sucked the helium out of the birthday balloons.

I remember giving my phone number to a guy named Pietro who spent over an hour trying to chat me up. I gave it to him as a reward for persistence. Not giving up in the face of adversity is a strength I admire in a person.

I remember ending up back at Darcy’s house and continuing to be best friends with a bottle of Grey Goose.

I remember bribing a cab driver to take me back to my place. I also remember planning to sleep the entire day away, and agreeing with Darcy that we wouldn’t wake up until the sun had gone to bed. I had plans to be on great terms with my mattress for at least the next twelve hours. Fifteen if I was really lucky. I told my dog, Barkley, of my plans and he agreed that it seemed like a great idea. Well, I assume he agreed with me. He certainly didn’t try to talk me out of it.

I should have known that luck doesn’t work that way as far as I’m concerned.


	21. When Did My Home Become A Drop-in Centre For The Lonely Hearts Brigade?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha drops a bombshell, and Bucky tries to make things up to you. Again.

I am one of the few twenty-somethings in my group of friends that is still childless. As such, the majority of the people that I went to high school and college with have pretty much removed themselves from my life, given that they no longer really have anything in common with me. It’s not that I don’t like children. Far from it. I love kids. It’s just that, to date, I’ve never really found anybody that I cared enough about to want to reproduce with.

As a result, the only regular interaction I have with anybody under voting age is Scott’s incorrigible daughter, Cassie, and the Barton children, given that they are a package deal with Clint and are soon to be Nat’s stepchildren.

I adore the Barton kids. Cooper, Lila and Nathaniel are good-natured, well-mannered, compassionate, loving and completely unspoilt, despite the fact that their father is one of the wealthiest people I know. They are adorable and I want to clone them so that I have an army of tiny people to do my bidding.

Still, as much as I love them, it was more than a bit of a shock to open my eyes at stupid o’clock the next morning, before the sun was even fully up, to find the three of them standing next to my bed, staring at me with wide eyes and slightly horrified expressions.

My eyes appeared to have been superglued shut after last night’s activities, but I valiantly attempted to face the small humans in front of me with as much dignity as I could manage after a big night out and very little sleep.

“Who hit you?” asked Cooper.

“What?”

“Who hit you?” he asked again at a much higher volume, because obviously he hadn’t spoken loudly enough the first time. The kid didn’t need a megaphone, that’s for sure. He could give a drill sergeant serious competition in the volume stakes.

“Nobody hit me. I walked into a door.” For once, that excuse was actually the truth. “Why do you ask?”  
  
“You have two black eyes. You look like a panda, but not as fluffy,” Lila responded helpfully.

“Does it hurt?” asked Cooper, as Nathaniel poked me in the eye.

“No,” I lied, wincing from the pain of being poked and prodded by a toddler.

“Can we get in bed with you?” asked Lila, even as the three of them were scrambling under the covers. It’s lucky I have a king-size bed.  
  
“I don’t know. Is there anybody else in the bed with me?”  
  
“Only Barkley,” said Cooper, pointing at my dog who was currently snoring at the foot of the bed, drooling on the quilt and dreaming doggy dreams.

“Alright, hop in,” I said. A bit redundantly, given that they had already made themselves at home. “So, where’s your wicked stepmother?”

I heard a crashing sound coming from my kitchen, followed very closely by a string of Russian swear words uttered very loudly.

“Nat?”  
  
“Sorry! But that was a really ugly vase and you always hated it so you’ll thank me later.” Natasha materialised in my bedroom doorway, carrying two steaming mugs of coffee. As she came bearing caffeine, I forgave her for breaking into my house in the wee small hours. She placed the mugs on my bedside table and produced a small bottle of Scotch from the pocket of her silk dressing gown. I forgave her even more. “Want some?”  
  
“Do I need it?” I asked.

“Probably.” She poured a generous dollop into my coffee and handed it to me. I sipped it, sighing gratefully. I was nowhere close to feeling normal, given the amount of alcohol currently still coursing through my bloodstream from the night before, but at least I felt moderately more functional.

“You look like absolute shit. What the hell happened to you yesterday?” Nat demanded.

“Obviously very serious damage. Why are you here so early?”  
  
“I don’t think I can go through with the wedding.”

As chief bridesmaid, it’s my duty to keep Nat calm and avoid crises involving pre-wedding jitters. Especially the day before said wedding. And even more especially before seven in the morning. “Oh? Why on earth not?”  
  
“My dress is strapless and it makes my arms look fat. The photos will be hideous. I can’t wear the dress.”  
  
“Nat, you are the most stunning woman I know. You will look gorgeous. Your arms are better defined than most men I know. You’ll be fine.”

“I left Clint.”  
  
Alright, _now_ I was awake. “You did _what? _But the wedding is _tomorrow! _You’ll lose your _deposit!_ You don’t have time to _cancel_ anything! You can’t _possibly_ call everyone and tell them the wedding is off! You _can’t_ have left Clint! You just _can’t!”_

Why was I speaking in _so many italics?_ And what’s with all the exclamation marks? I’m upset, that’s why, don’t judge me!

“She did leave Daddy. We all did,” Lila confirmed solemnly.

“You left your dad?” I asked the little girl incredulously.  
  
Cooper nodded enthusiastically. “Yep. He’s great and all, but he treats us like kids all the time.”  
  
“Coop, you _are_ kids.”  
  
“So? Nat treats us like grownups. She’s so much cooler than Dad.”

I stared at Nat. “You can’t just take Clint’s kids.”  
  
“Why the hell not? I’m not taking any money from him. The kids are my part of the settlement.”

“They’re not property, Nat! And it’s not really fair to Clint, is it?”  
  
She scoffed. “Fair, schmair. The fair thing would be to get one each, but there’s three of them which means one of them is left over and it’s not fair for one of us to get two and the other only gets one. So it’s all or nothing.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Wait a minute. Don’t they actually need to be your biological offspring in order for you to be granted custody of them? How are you going to take care of them? You don’t know the first thing about raising children.”

“Pfft. That’s why I have you. You’re my best friend, so naturally you’ll help me.”

I rolled my eyes. Nat grabbed both of my hands in hers. “Y/N, you need to promise me that if anything happens to me, you’ll take care of the kids.”  
  
“I’m pretty sure that Clint…”  
  
She shook her head. “No, I mean if anything happens to both me and Clint. You need to promise me that you’ll look after them. Clint and I don’t have our parents around, and his brother is too unreliable. We don’t have anybody else.”

“Fine, fine. I promise.”

Her shoulders sagged in relief. “It’s just that the whole marriage thing is so… final. It’s forever, you know? It’s a big deal. What if we fuck it up? What happens to the kids then? They’ve already lost one mother, is it fair for them to lose another?”  
  
“Well, if you leave now you will definitely fuck everything up. I think you’re borrowing trouble where there is none, Nat.”  
  
“But how do I know that going through with this wedding is the best thing for everyone?”

I shrugged. “You don’t. But just have a little faith, yeah? I’m pretty sure it will all work out for the best.”  
  
“Shit, if _you’re_ telling me to have faith then I _know_ I’m in serious trouble.”

I patted Nat’s shoulder. “It’s just pre-wedding nerves. You’ll be fine tomorrow.”

“Whatever. We’ll just stay with you until we can get back on our feet. It’ll be fun. We’ll be one of those non-traditional families that conservative politicians foam at the mouth about. I’m not so sure Bucky will be fine with it either, but…”  
  
“Yeah, about that. Bucky and I have sort of… broken up.”  
  
Nat brightened. “Well, that’s perfect! Everything is already working out great!”

The doorbell rang. It was six forty-five in the morning. Nat went to see who was at my door at such an indecent hour of the morning. I assumed it was Clint.

“Don’t worry, kids. They’ll work everything out. I’ll bet that’s your dad right now, telling Nat to come back so they can get married tomorrow.”

The kids obviously weren’t worried, given that they’d all gone back to sleep. I thought sleep sounded like a great idea, and was just rearranging my pillow in the minimal amount of space left in my bed when Nat returned to my bedroom with Bucky Barnes, aka Cameron Klein, aka that lying scumbag, trailing after her. I hid under the blankets, hoping he’d think I was asleep and leave me alone. 

No such luck.

Bucky pulled back the covers and stared down at me. “You look like shit, doll.”

Nat snorted. “You’re such a charmer. No wonder she broke up with you.”

“She broke up with me? When did that happen?” Bucky asked, his brow furrowed with concern.

Nat smirked. “Looks like you forgot to tell him something.”  
  
“Yeah, you did,” he nodded.

“Why are you two ganging up on me?” I whined. “I’m still concussed from yesterday. I can’t be expected to remember to tell everybody everything when I’m suffering from a head injury. Why the hell did you let him in anyway, Nat? You’re supposed to be my best friend.”  
  
“He has a key, sweetie.”

“Does _everybody_ have a key to my house?” I buried myself under the blankets again, just as the doorbell rang once again. I groaned. Great. _Another_ visitor. Every man and his fucking dog was going to descend upon my house today. Couldn’t I just suffer from my hangover and heartache in peace?

“Who the hell is ringing the doorbell so goddamned early on a Saturday morning?” Nat growled, making her way to the front door again.

“I don’t know. All the idiots I know who would do a stupid thing like that are already here.”

Nat left because the doorbell continued to ring. Whoever it was obviously decided that keeping their finger on the buzzer was the best way to get our attention. I hoped Nat broke the fingers of whoever it was.

Bucky sat down on the foot of the bed, picking up my coffee cup and helping himself to the contents therein. He didn’t seem to find it awkward that he was in my bedroom now that we were no longer together.

“Please, make yourself at home,” I said sarcastically.

“Thanks, doll, I will.” He grimaced after taking another sip of my coffee. “What the hell is in this?”  
  
“Scotch. If you want to add anything else, you’ll need to get it yourself.”  
  
“I didn’t come here for your coffee, doll.”

“Well, what the hell _did _you come here for?” I grumbled.

“Why do you think I’m here?”  
  
“Look, now is not a good time. I’m quite busy, as you can see for yourself. I’ve got a lot on right now.”  
  
He quirked an eyebrow at me, with that stupid smirk on his face. “Looks to me like you don’t have very much on at all.”

I followed his gaze down to my sleep shirt. Several buttons had come undone, revealing far more of myself than I was comfortable showing to my ex-whatever-the-hell-he-was. I hastily did up the buttons, grumbling under my breath as I did so.  
  
Suddenly I heard a lot of shouting coming from the front of the house. “Sounds like Clint is here.”

The yelling now sounded like it was on the move. It moved from room to room, punctuated by the sound of doors slamming and lots of name-calling.  
  
“Sounds like they need to sort out a couple of issues before the wedding tomorrow,” Bucky noted.

“I suppose so.”  
  
“So, are we going to talk about it?”  
  
“Clint and Nat?”  
  
“You know what I’m talking about, doll.”  
  
“No. Not now, at any rate. I’m functioning on about two minutes of sleep, which means that I could not under any circumstances be considered either rational or reasonable. Trust me, you do not want to talk to me in this state. I promise we will talk, but I need to sleep right now.”  
  
“You promise we’ll talk later?” Bucky persisted.  
  
“Yes! I pinky promise. Just let me sleep now.” I closed my eyes.

I heard someone’s shoes hitting the floor, and felt someone get in bed beside me. I tried to tell whoever it was that there was no room at the inn, given that all the vacancies were currently filled by three small humans and one large dog, and there was absolutely no space left for anybody else.

Especially _him_, who actually took up as much space as two normal sized people.

Bucky ignored my protests, wrapping his arms around me and making me feel warm and comfortable. I felt him press a kiss to the top of my head before I drifted away to dreamland.


	22. Happily Ever After Might Work For Disney Princesses, But This Is Real Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Make-up sex means very different things to you and Bucky.

I awoke to absolute silence. There was nobody ringing my doorbell. The bed contained a complete lack of small children, large dog, or even larger ex-boyfriend. Nobody was banging doors or breaking furniture. There was a total absence of marching band in my head. I gingerly peeled one eye opened and noted that the clock indicated that it was noon. Bliss. I thanked whichever higher power had granted me this slight reversal of fortune and made my way to the bathroom.

I noted the moisture in the shower, which meant that clearly, someone had been in there before me. As long as they didn’t use all of my clean towels, I really didn’t care. I have continuous hot water so I didn’t need to worry about it running out before I was fully conscious.

I stood under the water until I resembled a walking, talking prune. I noted that my eyes were still black, despite the amount of eye makeup remover I’d used, so I could only conclude that some of that black was, in fact, not makeup. I remembered my run-in with the restaurant door from the day before, and winced. That was painful, both physically and mentally.

My stomach rumbled, reminding me that, unlike pot plants, I am unable to live on fresh air and sunshine, and so I made my way to my kitchen to scrounge up something to stuff my face with. I’d dressed myself in an oversized Bugs Bunny t-shirt and a pair of boyleg shorts that incorrectly announced that it was Wednesday. I wandered into the kitchen and gazed at the sight before me.

My pitbull, Barkley, was lying on the floor in a narrow strip of sunlight that was pouring in through the window. He was stretched in the pose commonly known as the ‘sploot’ – front legs stretched out in front of him, back legs stretched out behind, looking like a canine Superman. But he wasn’t even close to the most interesting sight in my kitchen.

Seated at my dining table, reading a book, was the most god-like creature I have ever beheld. The beautiful being before me was casually sipping a cup of coffee, a towel draped haphazardly around his waist, tanned skin practically glowing in the sunlight. His hair was wet and tousled, his grey-blue eyes were shining, and his five o’clock shadow looked even sexier than usual.

In other words, Bucky Barnes was sitting there, practically naked, looking hotter than any man really has a right to look.

The book must have been riveting, because Bucky didn’t seem to notice that I’d entered the room until I had been to the fridge and taken out several ingredients to make myself an omelette. It was only once I’d started clanging pots and pans around that I finally gained his attention.

As soon as he noticed me, he displayed several signs that he was glad to find me within arm’s length, and invited me to sit in his lap. Given that I’d broken up with him yesterday, I didn’t feel inclined to acquiesce to his request. My refusal to comply seemed to trigger his alpha male complex, because before I could blink I found myself sitting in his lap anyway, despite my protestations. He then offered to show me what was under his towel, and continued with his dominant male behaviour until I gave in and agreed to have a peek at what he was hiding.

It wasn’t long before we reached the mutual decision to have sex up against the fridge. And then again on one of my kitchen chairs. And then on the kitchen bench. But after that slight hiccup, I reminded Bucky that I was very much of the opinion that things were most definitely over between us.

For some reason, Bucky was sure that he could convince me otherwise. “I really don’t see what the problem is, doll,” he murmured while nibbling on my neck.

I pushed him away and glared at him. “Of course you don’t. Can you go put some clothes on, please? You’re incredibly distracting and I’m trying to be mad at you.”

He smirked. It’s his default expression. “Are you sure you don’t want to have another go?”

I shook my head rather violently. “No. Definitely not. Clothes. _Now.”_

I gave him no option but to get dressed, given that I had already gone into my bedroom and pulled on a pair of jeans and a comfy sweater. He pulled on his boxers, thankfully, and then a pair of jeans and his favourite red Henley. I didn’t want to admit that it was my favourite as well. I hadn’t had an opportunity to pilfer it before we’d broken up, a fact for which I was now kicking myself. It would have made a fantastic souvenir of our time together.

“Why do you use a pseudonym for your column?” I asked.

“I went to college with a guy named Cameron. Most boring guy I’ve ever met. But that name sounds a lot more professional than Bucky. Klein was just a surname I picked at random. I wanted a name that was nondescript, so that I wouldn’t get stalked by crazy people on Twitter.” He flopped down on my bed, acting for all the world as if he belonged there.

“So what’s your real name?”

“My full name is James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky is a nickname from Buchanan. I wasn’t lying when I told you that my best friend gave me the nickname when we were kids.”

“Cameron is pretty old-fashioned. I must admit I always envisioned a much older man whenever I pictured Cameron. I’m not sure it’s a name I could really scream out during sex, but then I never thought it would be Bucky either, so…” I paused, frowning with confusion. “What were we talking about?”  
  
“Pietro wants to ask you on a date.”

My frown deepened. “Who the fuck is Pietro?”  
  
Bucky raised an eyebrow. “That was going to be my next question. He called me last night wanting to talk to you.”

“Me?” I asked, perplexed.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“Positive. You’re the only Y/N I know. Besides, he described you perfectly.”

“Pietro?” I repeated.  
  
“That’s the name he gave me.”  
  
I was still puzzled. “Why on earth would Pietro call you?”

“I couldn’t tell you that, doll.”  
  
I thought for a minute. “Oh!”

“I take it the penny has dropped now.”

“He’s a guy I met at Darcy’s birthday party…”  
  
“Go on.” Bucky had his arms crossed in front of his chest, looking like he was enjoying my discomfort.

“Well, he’d been trying so hard to pick me up the entire time we were at the party, so I had to give him a number to reward him for his efforts, but I didn’t actually want to give him mine.”  
  
Bucky snorted. “So you gave him mine instead?”

I tried to explain. “Well, you see, when you give a guy a number to get rid of him, it has to be a number that you know in case you have to repeat it a few times. Obviously, I know yours off by heart, even while completely plastered, so it was at the front of my brain when he asked me. The fact that he actually called it and then annoyed you late last night is just a bonus.”

“Poor guy. It must be hard, knowing that he pales in comparison to me. I’ll be nicer next time he calls.” Bucky stretched out on my bed, propping himself up with every pillow he could find.

“Please don’t encourage him,” I pleaded.

Bucky eyed me seriously. “So, Y/N, are you going to explain to me why you think we’ve broken up?”  
  
“Because you lied to me, Bucky.”

“It wasn’t _exactly_ a lie. I just sort of withheld some pertinent information from you.”  
  
“It’s exactly the same thing! Lying by omission is still lying. Why the hell didn’t you tell me about Cameron?”  
  
“I could ask you the very same question, doll. Why didn’t _you_ tell _me _about Cameron?”  
  
He had a point, but there was no way I was going to admit that to him. “I asked first.”

“I did try to tell you. Several times in fact. I _would_ have told you if your behaviour hadn’t been so unpredictable.”

“Are you saying that it’s my fault that you didn’t tell me the truth?” I asked incredulously.

Bucky shrugged. “I didn’t want to scare you off.”

“I don’t get scared that easily.”

He scoffed. “Doll, please. We had an amazing first date which lasted nearly forty-eight hours, and then a couple of incredibly fantastic weeks after that, and things were going great. At least, _I_ thought they were. You seemed to be as happy with how things were developing as I was. And then you disappeared on me for two weeks. If I’d told you then that I was Cameron, you would have been so ecstatic that I probably would never have seen you again.”

God, I hate it when people have reasonable explanations for everything.

Bucky continued. “What’s the big deal? You like Cameron. You like me. Now you have both of us together, all tied up in one adorably awesome package. That should make you twice as happy.”

“You’re using boy logic.”  
  
“Well, I’m a boy.” Bucky sat up. “I don’t get it, doll. What’s the problem? We seemed to be getting on just fine up till now.”

“Getting on is not the problem. The problem is…” The problem was I didn’t really know _what _the problem was.

“This isn’t really about Cameron at all, is it?” Bucky asked perceptively.  
  
I suddenly felt as if he could look straight into my soul, and it made me feel extremely small. “Look, not every woman is looking for her knight in shining armour. We don’t all want the fairytale ending. Some of us want more out of life.”  
  
“You know, you can be in a relationship and still have a life, doll,” he pointed out.

“It’s not the same. Guys can make a hell of a lot more mistakes than women can. If you have a crappy relationship, you can start another one later on. You can have a family at fifty if you want to. Women don’t get that option. We have a use-by date.”

“That won’t happen to us,” he said reassuringly.  
  
“How can you be so positive about that, Bucky? You fell out of love with Dot. How do I know you won’t fall out of love with me, too?”  
  
“I don’t think I was ever really in love with Dot.”  
  
I snorted. “Please. You were together for two years. What were you doing if you weren’t in love with her? Just killing time until your real soulmate graduates from kindergarten?”

Bucky just looked at me. “I think I was only with Dot because I wanted to be with _someone,_ and I thought that was enough.”  
  
“OK.”  
  
“Remember, I hadn’t met _you_ yet, doll.”  
  
For some reason, that just made me feel worse. I burst into tears. I tried to stop them, but that just made me cry harder. Bucky wrapped his arms around me, and I buried my face in his chest. “Y/N, why can’t we just see where this goes?”  
  
“I don’t want to see,” I sniffed.

“Why the hell not?” Bucky asked with more than a little exasperation.

“Because I don’t believe in happily ever after.”  
  
“I’m starting to think you don’t believe in anything at all,” he snapped.

“Besides, how do I know that you didn’t see Dot while you were in LA?”  
  
“You don’t, but you might try having a little faith in me when I tell you that I didn’t.”

I returned his glare with one of my own. “You expect me just to believe whatever the hell you tell me because it will make my life easier? Sorry, no can do. I’m pretty sure that there’s some eighteen-year-old out there just waiting to believe whatever you tell her, and when you find her, you’ll be grateful that I’ve broken up with you.”

Bucky gazed at me with something akin to heartbreak on his handsome face, which just made me want to cry even more. “If you didn’t want to see this through, then why start it in the first place?”  
  
“Because I didn’t think it would get this far! I thought because of Cameron…”  
  
“That you’d always have another option, a way out.”  
  
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

Bucky stared at me for a full minute before speaking again. “Are you really sure this is what you want, Y/N?”

I wasn’t sure at all, but I told him that I was.

“So that’s it then? This is really over.” He stood up and went to leave, pausing in the doorway of my bedroom. “Y/N, why the hell won’t you let yourself be happy?”  
  
I had no answer to that. “I guess this means you aren’t coming to the wedding.”  
  
“I’ll call and give my apologies to Nat and Clint.” He looked at me sadly for another minute, before turning and leaving.

I heard the front door close and suddenly felt incredibly empty. I figured it was hunger, so I made myself an omelette. Then I devoured a packet of choc chip cookies. After that I went through a family-sized packet of Doritos, a pack of salami sticks, and a tub of Ben & Jerry’s.

Then I curled up on my bed and sobbed relentlessly, hugging Barkley close to me despite his attempts to get away. Puppy cuddles cure everything.


	23. Weddings Are Great As Long As You Are Not Sad And Single

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s Clintasha’s wedding day, and you try to forget your heartbreak for one day.

It was a perfect day for a beachside wedding.

Lila was blithely skipping in front of the bridal party, tossing rose petals with reckless abandon, her poofy skirt flouncing with each step. Cooper and Nathaniel were walking behind her, bearing the rings on matching satin pillows, looking as adorable as possible in their little tuxedoes.

I was finding it extremely difficult to keep a sedate pace down the aisle whilst ABBA’s _“I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do, I Do” _was playing. It was even more difficult to keep a straight face. Trust Natasha to pick such a ridiculous song for her wedding march. 

Given that I was chief bridesmaid, Natasha had done a very poor job of making me look the part. For one thing, my dress actually fit me and didn’t make me look like I was wearing a potato sack. For another, it was very pretty. She seemed to have forgotten the unspoken rule that bridesmaids dresses are supposed to be completely hideous, in order to not detract attention from the bride. The dress she shoved me into was a soft charcoal colour, with a strapless sweetheart neckline and a soft chiffon skirt.

As it was a beach ceremony, I wore jewelled sandals on my feet rather than monstrous heels which would likely break my ankles. My hair was down and softly curled over one shoulder, and I had a frangipani bloom tucked behind my ear, to match the small bouquet I held in one hand.

In my other hand, I held a leash, at the end of whom was my pitbull, Barkley. He’d been washed and brushed, and had a white collar and black bow tie around his neck. His tongue lolled out in a happy grin, and my dog had never looked more loveable. He received more “Naaws” from the guests than Clint’s three adorable munchkins had.

Barkley was my date for the evening. I had told Nat and Clint that I would rather date my dog than call Bucky and beg him to come to the wedding. I wasn’t ready to forgive him just yet, and I was even less ready to admit that I had made a mistake. As such, Nat included Barkley in the wedding party. Probably out of spite, because Barkley is a terrible dancer and I’m positive that Nat was hoping Bucky would be able to charm some of her old maid aunts at the reception.

Clint and his best man Peter Quill stood at the end of the red carpet, watching our progress down the aisle. They were both wearing traditional tuxes, but also sported a pair of sunglasses and stood with their hands crossed in front of their groins. They looked like a pair of gangsters.

I got to the end of the aisle and took my place, waiting for Nat to appear. And waited. And waited some more. Just as Clint looked like he was ready to head back and find out what was keeping his beloved, we heard a string of Russian curse words, followed by a hurried apology. “Sorry! My zip got stuck and I needed some help. All good now. It’s not like you can start without me anyway.” 

Nat practically floated down the aisle, looking as stunning as ever. Being extremely non-traditional, she’d opted for an emerald green gown, rather than white. It set off her red hair and green eyes beautifully, hugging her curves and emphasising her bombshell exterior. She also had a frangipani behind her ear, and her smile was serene.

If I was the insecure type, I would have felt like a complete wallflower in comparison. Instead, I was bursting with pride at just how gorgeous my best friend looked. She looked amazing.

When she took her place opposite Clint, I noticed that her face had a glow that hadn’t been there before I’d left the tent. I leaned in close and whispered, “What is it?”  
  
“Vodka,” she whispered back, her lips not moving.

The celebrant stepped forward to begin the ceremony.

***********************************************

The reception took place in an enormous marquee that had been set up on the beach. It was covered in fairy lights and candelabras, creating a soft glow inside.  
  
I carried out my bridesmaid duties splendidly. I drank as much champagne as I could get my hands on, flirted with every male over the age of twelve, and surreptitiously checked my phone for non-existent messages from Bucky every three minutes.

Rather than giving me the opportunity to forget about him for the rest of the night, everybody else at the reception insisted on mentioning him to me. I had an interesting conversation with Maria Hill, Nat’s cousin and a complete maneater. She cornered me at the bar halfway through the evening.

“So, Y/N, Nat tells me that you’re seeing Bucky Barnes.”

“Not any more. I didn’t realise you knew him.”

She nodded. “Not half as well as I’d like to, believe me.”

“Oh, really?” I asked innocently.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why did you guys break up?”

“Oh, nothing major. Just the fact that he turned out to be gay.”

“No!” she gasped in horror. “Dammit! That is so typical. There are no cute, straight guys anymore.”

“It’s always the way, isn’t it?” I tutted, pouring more champagne into her glass.

“It’s a bit surprising though. He didn’t really register on my gay-dar, and I’m usually never wrong with that.”

I leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “He’s not completely out of the closet just yet. He still dates girls to keep up appearances. Apparently, Mama Barnes is a good old-fashioned Irish Catholic, so I don’t think she’d take too kindly to finding out that her only son is batting for the other team.”

Maria rolled her eyes. “Typical. What a waste. You could invest years of your life in someone like that only to be disappointed in the end.”  
  
“I know! Excuse me, I need to make sure Barkley isn’t eating the wedding cake. Nice talking to you, Maria.”

I found myself sitting in an out-of-the-way spot at the bar to watch the single women scramble for prime position in the hopes of catching the bridal bouquet. A wedding isn’t really the best place to be if you’ve just broken up with someone, and I didn’t really feel like being caught in the stampede to find out if I’d be the next one getting married. It felt a bit hypocritical under the circumstances. I mean, two people I absolutely adored had finally made a lifelong commitment to each other, and whilst I was ecstatic for the both of them, I was feeling extremely sorry for myself.

Suddenly, the bouquet flew in a high, graceful arc and landed in my lap, earning me several glares from the other single ladies. I forgot that Nat played basketball in high school and college. Even drunk, wearing a strapless dress and facing the wrong way, she’s still an excellent shot.

After seeing Clint and Nat off for the drive to the hotel where they were spending their wedding night, I found myself cornered by an exceptionally overconfident man. “Hey baby, I’m Justin Hammer, and I think I’m in love.”  
  
“I think you’re hammered,” I muttered. “And just who do you think you’re in love with?”  
  
“You, baby!” he shouted, as if the answer was obvious and I was a complete dunce for not understanding that.

“I’d say I’m flattered, but I’m really not. Tonight’s not a great night for me, and I’d really rather be left alone if it’s all the same to you.”

“Babe, tonight’s great! I have a feeling your luck is about to change.” He winked and made finger guns at me. Dear Lord, shoot me now. 

“Please stop talking.”  
  
“Sure thing, sweetheart. Do you want to dance?”  
  
“With you? No thanks. I’d rather walk barefoot on a treadmill covered in Lego.”

“Hey, come on, sweet thing. I think you and me have chemistry. We could be good together.”  
  
I glared at him. “No. You’re one of those guys who seems to think that bridesmaids at a wedding are easy prey. Sorry buddy, but you’re out of luck tonight.”  
  
“You want me to give you a ride home?”  
  
Ugh. This guy just didn’t know when to quit. “I really think you should find someone else to annoy.”

Suddenly, Maria appeared, champagne bottle in hand, wobbling extremely unsteadily on her feet. “Hey, Y/N! You need a ride? We’ve got a cab waiting!”  
  
“That would be great, Maria!”  
  
Justin said, “Hey baby, I got a ride for you.”  
  
“Shut up, Justin.”

“Come on, Y/N!” Maria called. Then she passed out.

By the time I’d managed to get her in the back of the cab, lying face down and snoring gently, and another of Nat’s cousins sat in the passenger seat, there was no room left for me.

“Your friend had a great pair of tits,” Justin said, emphasising his point with his hands. What a disgusting cretin.

“Wow, you’re such a charmer.”  
  
He shook his head. “I don’t like it when women drink so much. Drunk women are not sexy.”  
  
“What, and drunk men are?” I asked, which just seemed to confuse him. I sighed heavily. “Does that offer of a ride still stand?”

He brightened up at that. “Sure thing, sweet cheeks! I’ll just get the Corvette!”  
  
“You have got to be kidding me.”

Justin’s face fell when he noticed that I had Barkley with me. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t counting on taking home a sixty-pound dog as well as what he obviously hoped would be a post-wedding conquest, but he couldn’t exactly rescind the offer now without looking like a total asswipe. I shoved Barkley in between us so that there would be less chance that Justin’s hands would wander where they shouldn’t. I was especially proud of the amount of drool that Barkley was leaving all over the leather seats. I love my dog.

After an extremely silent car ride, Justin pulled up in front of my home. I gave an insincere smile. “Well, thanks for the ride.”  
  
“You gonna invite me in?”  
  
“No.”

“But the night is still young, baby!”  
  
“Yeah, but I’m not. Besides, I have to get up early in the morning.” Lie, but he didn’t need to know that.

“You sure you want to let me get away, sweetheart? It’s a big old lonely world out there, you know.”  
  
“And yet I’m positive that I’ll survive.” Clearly, Justin Hammer was God’s way of punishing me for breaking up with Bucky Barnes.

Justin reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle of breath spray, squirting it into his mouth a couple of times.

Barkley noticed before I did, as I was busy trying to open the door whilst wrangling a large dog, and he started barking in alarm. I didn’t realise that Justin was leaning in for a kiss until he reeled back with an undignified screech. Barkley had kissed him instead, and he’d gotten a mouthful of drool-covered pitbull tongue instead of mine.

Man, I _really_ love my dog.


	24. I Don’t Understand Why You Have Such Faith In Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have an apparent crisis of faith, and Father Steve lends a sympathetic ear.

Barkley had already rejected twenty-three potential peeing places and was looking like rejecting spot number twenty-four. If he reached twenty-five I was never taking him for a walk again. He could live in the basement for the rest of his life.

“Come on, Barkley. Does it really matter where you pee? Just pick a tree already. I’ve got stuff to do.”

Stuff didn’t involve work, because I was incapable of working this afternoon. Father Nicholas Fury – he of the pirate eyepatch – had called Tony this morning to congratulate our firm on being awarded the Church account, and as a result Tony and I had spent the rest of the morning drinking beer. Not that we were drinking beer to celebrate. We were drinking beer for work purposes – it was research for our beer client. We’d been on a bar crawl through some of the worst sports bars in Manhattan, as it was only sports bars that seemed to have the beers we required on tap.

Even if I hadn’t been too inebriated to return to work, I could get away with slacking off for a little bit. Because the Church account was a done deal, I could potentially spend the rest of the year sipping piña coladas on a beach in the South Pacific and still collect my salary. I was the goose that laid the golden egg, and there was absolutely no way that Tony was going to get rid of me.

Anyway, Barkley’s dutiful inspection of every letterbox, shrub and small tree had led me to a small church not far from my home. A sign in front of the building announced that “Jesus Saves”, and underneath this was a notice advising that bingo would commence at 6pm sharp on Tuesday evening, with a grand total of two hundred dollars to be won. I assumed this was the amount that Jesus had saved thus far.

Although it was nearly four in the afternoon, there was company outside the church. On the lawn were two little old ladies, gossiping faster than the speed of sound. They appeared to be setting up a table for a cake stall. I could smell coffee brewing.

Barkley sniffed the air with delight and started galloping towards the elderly matrons. I tugged on his leash in a vain attempt to halt his progress. The last thing I needed was for my dog to use the church as a urinal. I managed to drag him to a stop just as he reached the double doors of the main building.

“Oh God, Barkley, why here? Why must you pee on holy ground in front of the old ladies from the church Bingo committee? Have you no shame?”

Barkley sniffed the church steps, ignoring the disapproving glares of the grandmas below. I tugged on his leash, hissing at him urgently. “Don’t pee on the church steps. Don’t pee on the church steps. For the love of God, _do not_ _pee on the church steps!”_

Amazingly, my dog listened to my pleas. Descending the church steps with as much dignity as a pitbull can muster, he headed instead to the rose bushes at the side of the church, unapologetically stared straight at the old ladies, lifted his leg, and watered the roses.

I apologised profusely to the little old ladies, who looked as if they were contemplating taking me behind the church and beating the crap out of me.

While waiting for my dog to stop embarrassing me, I noticed a tiny old man attempting to drag a folding table across the lawn. Taking pity on his struggles, I found myself at the other end of the table and lifted it off the ground. The old man seemed surprised, but pleasantly so, to find himself receiving assistance, and threw me a grateful smile. I helped him set the table up under the shade of a large tree, where several boxes were waiting.

“Thanks for the help, little lady. I’m Stan.” He threw a cheeky smile my way, and I might have fallen a teensy bit in love with him. He was adorable, in a way that reminded me of my dear departed Grandpa.

I introduced myself to Stan and helped him set up the table. He chattered away non-stop, not seeming to notice that I was only half-listening to him. The other half of me was attempting to monitor my dog, who seemed to have remembered that there was a vast amount of sugary baked goodness potentially awaiting his consumption and was looking for an opportunity to sneak over to them unnoticed.

“Have you seen it?” Stan asked, referring to the latest Marvel film.

“Not yet, but I’ve heard good things.”

“Oh, you’ll love it. It’s great.”

I smiled at him. “You seem to watch a lot of movies.”

Stan beamed at me. “I go a few times a week. I go with a buddy on Tuesdays because it’s cheap day for seniors. And on Thursdays and Sundays I go with my girlfriend.” He winked at me cheekily.

“Your girlfriend?”

“Sure. We’ve been going steady for over fifty years.”  
  
“That’s sweet.”

He looked at me keenly. “How about you? You got a fella? Anybody you’re sweet on?”

I shook my head. “Nope. I’m unattached.”  
  
Stan seemed surprised. “What? A gorgeous dame like you? Men these days must be blind. If I didn’t already have a girlfriend, I’d take you out on the town.”  
  
“I’m not sure I could keep up with you, Stan.”

“Well, I’m sure I could slow it down some for you.” We grinned at each other before unloading the boxes, getting ready for the church jumble sale. There was the usual assortment of mismatched crockery, dog-eared books, clothes that were at least ten years out of date, and toys that had definitely seen better days.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Barkley stealthily making his way towards the table laden with cakes and pastries. The little old ladies, now seated, were too busy nattering away to notice the lurking canine threat to their baked goodies. If I didn’t stop him, I’d be the proud owner of every cake on that table in the next two minutes.

“You know what’s wrong with the world today?” Stan asked.

I assumed it wasn’t a rhetorical question, so I replied, “No.”

“Nobody values anything anymore. It’s like they just buy everything but not because they need it. It’s just for the sake of buying it. Everything is for sale nowadays.”

What could I say? He had a point.

“The best things in life are free,” he continued. “Not because they aren’t worth anything, but because you can’t buy happiness.”

Before I could respond, I heard a high-pitched shriek coming from the direction of the cake stall. That was my cue to exit, stage left.

***********************************************

Father Steve was instantly the favourite person of the church Bingo committee. He was a hero, merely by virtue of the fact that whilst on his daily afternoon walk, he reached out, grabbed Barkley’s leash, and became the saviour of the Protestant cake stall.

True, he grabbed the leash just as Barkley was preparing to launch himself at the table holding the cake and coffee for the bingo patrons, but I can honestly say that if _I_ had been the one to save the day, I would not have been greeted with anywhere near as much gratitude as Father Steve was. I probably wouldn’t have been given any free cake, either.

I arrived at the scene less than two seconds after Father Steve, yet while he received adoring looks of gratitude, I was greeted with glares and firm disapproval in the way that only judgmental old ladies can manage.

Somehow, Father Steve not only managed to convince the old ladies to embrace Barkley, but also to watch over him while we explored the church grounds. Father Steve convinced the silly old bats that I was to be his guest on his expedition, and I was finally noticed with smiles and nods that seemed more than slightly insincere. I decided I wouldn’t trust these little old ladies if I saw them in a dark alley. They scared the bejeezus out of me.

I followed Father Steve into the church. I was a fairly sporadic church-attendee, usually only gracing such places with my presence when I was obligated to attend a wedding, christening or funeral. I did go to the Sistine Chapel when I was in Rome, but that was purely as a tourist. I didn’t go because I _enjoy_ church.

Father Steve had finished his inspection of the inside of the building, and sat in one of the pews. I found myself sitting next to him, and heard myself saying the first thing that popped into my head. “Are you allowed to be inside a Protestant church? Isn’t that kind of being unfaithful to your religion?”

Blue eyes gazed steadily into my own. “I believe in promoting unity amongst all the world’s churches. The ecumenical movement means that religion can be all-embracing. Sort of like ‘one light, many lamps’, if you get my meaning.”

“But advertising isn’t exactly ecumenical, is it?” Father Steve looked at me, which had the usual effect of making me feel the necessity to explain myself further. “Once you start advertising, what’s to stop every other Christian denomination from going out there and declaring themselves the One True Faith? It’s not really going to promote unity among the churches if you all say you are the only one that’s the true one.”

“Our mandate is only to save one Church,” Father Steve replied.

“Yes, but by doing so you may end up damaging religion as a whole.” I paused briefly, trying to think of the best way to voice my thoughts. “It’s like you told me at the bar that night. Everybody keeps acquiring more stuff, but they just end up more stressed. And it’s just getting worse. Society as a whole is becoming more shallow. Everybody wants bigger, better, faster, more, but once they have it they still aren’t satisfied. They want even more. Nothing they have will ever be enough.”

I took a deep breath before continuing. “People will sacrifice everything they have in order to buy the latest whatever-it-is that they deem absolutely essential to their happiness, even though they’ll replace it as soon as a newer model comes out. It’s ironic, really. We sacrifice things that can’t be replaced – time, relationships, our health – with things that can easily be replaced as soon as we find something that we think is better.”  
  
“You’re remarkably perceptive about this subject today,” Father Steve remarked.

“I’ve spent the day researching beer. I think I’ve had about twenty in total. Beer makes me extremely knowledgeable. Anyway, if you sell religion the way you sell everything else, it becomes just another commodity. It means that faith can be upgradeable, which makes it disposable. Is that really what the Church wants?”

Father Steve stared at me with those intense blue eyes of his. “I’m curious as to why you worry about religion being considered a commodity, Y/N. You’ve told me on numerous occasions that you aren’t the least bit religious.”

“It’s because consuming means buying the goods, having the goods, and then getting rid of the goods in order to obtain bigger, better goods. It’s not about doing any _actual_ good. It’s completely against the spiritual values of the faith. By advertising, people will start to rationalise their religion the way they rationalise every other purchase they make: by asking ‘What’s in it for me? What do I get out of this?’ Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure that’s not what Jesus was trying to tell everyone.”

“Why does this upset you so much, Y/N?” Father Steve asked.

I started to deny that I was upset, but I absolutely was upset. I shouldn’t day drink; it makes me emotional. “I don’t know. I guess I just don’t think that we’re doing the right thing.”

Father Steve pondered this for a moment, then asked quietly, “Why is that?”

He was the gentlest interrogator I’d ever encountered, and yet I found myself feeling inexplicably angry with him. “Because surely there has to be one thing in this world that isn’t for sale. There must be something to believe in, that’s _worth_ believing in, even if I don’t personally believe in it. There has to be more to life. There just has to be.”

I didn’t realise that I was crying until Father Steve wordlessly handed me a handkerchief. I wiped my eyes and sniffled. Shrugging, I said softly, “Don’t listen to me. I don’t even know what I’m saying. I don’t know anything about anything.”

Father Steve continued to look at me, his gaze soft and kind. “A person’s faith isn’t determined by whether they attend church on a regular basis or not. It’s based on what is most important to them. If what they believe in the most is money or power, then it won’t matter how long they sit in church; they will never reach true understanding or enlightenment. Trust me, Y/N.”

I continued sniffling, not sure where the conversation was headed.

Father Steve went on. “Some people are only able to believe in what they’ve been brought up to believe, what they’ve been told to believe. You definitely are not one of those people. Then there are people who refuse to believe in anything. You only _think_ you are one of those people. I believe you belong to another category altogether.”

“What do you mean, Father?”  
  
“I mean, there are people who only believe the things that they find agree with their sense of reason, their common sense, what they feel in their hearts and souls. This makes their beliefs more likely to last for the rest of their lives, because it’s part of what makes them who they are as a person. It’s probably the most difficult way, the bravest way, because quite often you are going to be alone in your belief – but I also think that it is the best way to be. You are one of those people, whether you believe it or not.”

For some reason, this made me burst into tears again. I wailed loudly, and Father Steve gathered me into his arms and held me against his broad chest. It was extremely comforting, although I had a sneaking suspicion that it might just be frowned upon by the ladies of the Protestant Church Bingo Committee if they found us thus entwined on the church pew. I’m pretty sure there is some unwritten rule against hugging members of the clergy, no matter how fantastic their hugs are.

Once my sobs had subsided, and Father Steve’s chest was extremely soggy, I disentangled myself from his embrace and apologised weakly for being so melodramatic. He smiled sweetly at me. “I think you are closer to understanding than you know.”

I looked at him, perplexed. “I’m not really sure that I understand anything, Father.”

His smile turned enigmatic. “That’s all you really can understand.”

For some strange reason, I actually felt a glimmer of understanding. I knew what I needed to do. I just wasn’t sure if I was brave enough to do it.

***********************************************

To cope with the stress and disappointment that has been a constant part of my life since religion entered into the picture – and Bucky left it – I’d taken to having a glass of wine or beer in the courtyard of my brownstone at the end of the day.  
  
I was babysitting the Barton children for the weekend, as Nat and Clint had decided to have some ‘alone time’, and my conversation with the brats went along these lines.

“Why can’t I have a beer?” demanded Cooper.

“Because if you do you’ll stay the height you are now for the rest of your life.”

He looked sceptical. “Is that true?”  
  
“I’m not sure, but are you really prepared to take that risk? Besides,” I pointed at him with the beer bottle, “you wouldn’t like it.”

“How do you know?”  
  
“Because you’re seven, and when I was seven I didn’t like beer. I still don’t like it that much, to be honest.”  
  
“If you don’t like it, then why do you drink it all the time?” asked Lila.  
  
“I don’t drink it _all_ the time. Just every day for the past two weeks because my life sucks. It’s just something that grownups do. You’ll understand when you stop being so short.”

Lila pouted. The chances of her being anything less than short for the rest of her life were not good, given how tiny her mother had been. Lila would be lucky to reach five-feet when she stopped growing.

Cooper remained determined. “I’m thirsty. Why can’t I have a beer?”  
  
“Because, as I mentioned previously, you’re seven. If you’re thirsty, you can have juice or milk. Those are your choices.”  
  
“I have no choices,” he whined.

“Correct.” I sipped my beer, watching Nathaniel gently place flowers and leaves all over Barkley, who was snoring at my feet. Barkley was great with the Barton kids; they could do anything they liked to him and he wouldn’t bat an eye.

“What happened to your boyfriend? Why isn’t he here anymore?” Lila wanted to know.

“He’s… um, I don’t actually know where Bucky is right now.”

“What did you do?” Cooper asked.

“What makes you think I did anything?”

Cooper raised an eyebrow. “What did you do, Y/N?” he repeated.

_“I _didn’t do anything. _He_ pretended to be somebody that he wasn’t. It’s all _his_ fault.”

“Does this mean you need a new boyfriend?” Lila inquired rather innocently.

“No. I don’t want a new boyfriend.” I looked at Lila and Cooper. “Why are you both so concerned about my romantic wellbeing, anyway?”  
  
Cooper gave me a look which indicated that I was a complete idiot. “We’re not, but Nat is. She says you’ve messed things up and you’re never going to get married and she’s going to have to let you live in the basement when you turn into a crazy cat lady in five years’ time.”

Oh ye of little faith.

Cooper patted my knee affectionately. “Don’t worry Y/N. In three years I’ll be ten, and that’s old enough for me to marry you. I’ll make sure you won’t be old and lonely.”  
  
I pulled him into a tight hug, ignoring his protests, so that he couldn’t see the tears that filled my eyes. I pressed a kiss to the top of his head, causing him to squirm even more. “Thanks, Coop. I love you, too.”

The three of them looked at me as if I’d just cursed them all. Love is gross when you’re only three feet tall.

Even more so when you’re a grownup.


	25. Goodbye Boring Old 9 to 5, Hello Great Unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You make a life-changing decision – and have a revelation about your emotional entanglements.

My exit interview with Tony was extremely civilised, in spite of the amount of alcohol involved. He’d insisted that I have a gin and tonic with him to commiserate, and he managed to finish five before I’d even got halfway through one.

“Are you sure you’re not pregnant?” he asked for the fifth time.

“Definitely not.”  
  
“Dying?”

“No faster than anybody else on the planet.”  
  
“Huh. So you really just want to take six months off to find yourself?” He looked at me over the top of his sunglasses.

“Yep.”

“Well, good luck kiddo. You’re going to need it. It’s a big old scary world out there.”

“I know, Tony.” I looked at my former boss. “I must say, you’re taking this exceptionally well.”

He shrugged. “To be honest, kid, I don’t blame you for getting out. Advertising is a stupid business with absolutely no redeeming qualities whatsoever. It’s not as much fun as it was in the eighties and nineties. Everybody got drunk all the time, and had sex with everyone else, and got naked at the drop of a hat. Nobody knows how to have fun anymore. It’s all serious business nowadays. No inappropriate shenanigans. What’s the point?”

I quirked an eyebrow at him. “Why do you stick around if it’s so boring?”  
  
“Because I’m too old to change. You’re not. Go forth. Spread your wings. Have babies or save the whales or whatever it is you want to do. And if you find out that leaving here was the biggest mistake of your life, well, the door is always open for you to come back. You’ve been one of the best people I’ve worked with, and I’ll welcome you back anytime.”  
  
I hugged Tony fiercely, causing him to spill some of his gin and tonic. It’s a testament to how much he was going to miss me that he didn’t even protest about the spilled drink. I pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, Tony. I’m going to miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too. Now get out of here before I have security throw you out.”

***********************************************

Scott waylaid me before I left the office and handed me a hastily wrapped parcel. “It’s not much, just a little something to remember me by.”

I unwrapped the gift, snorting when I pulled out the t-shirt emblazoned with a pie chart and the slogan _My vocabulary – 49% swearing, 49% sarcasm, 2% intellectual discourse._

“Thanks, Scott,” I said, giving him a hug which he returned somewhat awkwardly. “Are you coming to the party?”  
  


“Are you kidding? Tony’s paying, of course I’m coming. I’m not going to say no to free alcohol.”

I grinned at him. “Spoken like a true friend.”

He shuffled his feet. “I’m going to miss you, Y/N.”  
  
“Are you going sentimental on me, Scott Lang?” I asked.

“Maybe a tiny bit.” He shrugged.

I felt tears stinging my eyes, so I punched him in the arm. “I’ll miss you too, loser.”

***********************************************

Peter was waiting for me in the parking lot, trying desperately to look like he wasn’t going to cry. I pulled him into a hug and he sniffed. He gave me a watery smile. “You know, Y/N, technically you’re still my boss until you leave the carpark, so that kind of counts as sexual harassment.”

“So sue me.” I pressed a kiss to his cheek. I was going to miss my efficiently perky intern more than everyone else I worked with put together.

“I always knew you were a cougar,” he said. He sniffed again, and then wrapped his arms around me again, bursting into tears. “I’m going to miss you so much, Y/N.”

“I’m going to miss you too, Pete. But I’ll keep in touch, I promise.” I rubbed his back soothingly until he calmed down. Silly, wasn’t it? I was the one leaving, and Peter was the one that needed comforting.

“Oh, you’ll never guess who Darcy is seeing, as of last week!” Peter exclaimed, pulling away from me suddenly.

Last minute gossip? Count me in. “Who?”

He grinned. “Scott Lang.”

“No way!”

“Yes way! Apparently it’s true love.”

I was nonplussed. Scott and Darcy. Who’d have thought?

“So are you going to stay on, Peter?”  
  
He shrugged. “For a bit, I guess. But you’ve inspired me, so I’m thinking of going back to college. And if worst comes to worst, I can live off my trust fund while I try to figure out what I want to do with my life.”  
  
“Good for you, Pete.” If anyone was going to make anything of themselves, it was going to be Peter Parker.

***********************************************

I drove home from my last day on the job, still somewhat surprised at how easy I’d found it to walk away. I had honestly thought I would find it more difficult. Perhaps the fact that I knew I could always go back if I wanted to – Tony had made it abundantly clear that he would welcome me back with open arms – made things easier. I’d quit my job, but my world hadn’t ended. Instead of falling apart, it was full of opportunity and countless possibilities.

I tried to wrap my head around the fact that I was no longer gainfully employed. That was actually easier to understand than the relationship between Scott Lang and Darcy Lewis. The possibility of true love between those two caused me to ponder life, the universe and everything.

Maybe, just maybe, if two of the most cynical people I knew could find love with each other, then true love really existed after all.

***********************************************

To: Cameron.Klein@brooklynbulletin.com

Reply to: itsme_y/n@yahoo.com

_Dear Cameron,_

_I like you rather a lot, in spite of the significant drawbacks in your personality. For some time, I even imagined that I was in love with you. Of course, now I know that I was never in love with you. How could I have been?_

_You can’t fall in love with somebody that you’ve never met. That only works in the movies, and even then it usually ends badly. Real life doesn’t work that way._

_However, I am in love with somebody. When I finally realised it – and actually had the guts to admit it to myself – it scared the crap out of me. So I did what I usually do when things scare me. I behaved badly and messed things up, quite possibly beyond repair, and then wondered why on earth my life is so shit. But I have been working on getting my act together, and I just hope that I have done enough that the man I love is willing to give me another chance. I’m pretty sure Bucky is the forgiving sort, but I did hurt him very badly, and I’d understand completely if he never wanted to see me again._

_Natasha is convinced that everything will be fine. As long as I show up on his doorstep wearing something short and tight, and tell him that he was right about everything even if he wasn’t, she is certain that all will be forgiven._

_Do you honestly think I have any chance at all?_

_Yours,_

_Y/N_   
  
_PS – If things don’t work out with Bucky, maybe I can give you a call sometime? As a friend, of course…_

***********************************************

Once I’d sent my final email to Cameron, I went grocery shopping, buying enough food and wine for six people. Now that I’m unemployed, I actually have time to catch up with people again. So I’d arranged to have a dinner party the following night. I still had some friends, other than Nat and Clint. My college friend Wanda (who I discovered was the twin sister of Pietro – the guy who’d asked me out at Darcy’s party) had agreed to introduce me to her new boyfriend Jarvis, who was English and sounded rather posh; and my childhood friend Jane Foster – whose sandwich I stole in third grade and had felt guilty about ever since – was bringing along her date, Thor. I nearly choked on my beer when I found out she was dating the model that I’d once gone out with. Clearly, the lack of interesting conversation didn’t bother her.

Peter was also coming along as it had been a week since I’d resigned and apparently he was pining for my company, because I was the only person at the office that treated him like an actual human being rather than a kid. I didn’t realise the poor boy would take my departure from the agency so hard.

I arrived home, more than a little surprised to find Bucky Barnes waiting for me on my front steps. I stood with my mouth hanging open, staring at him. He came over to my car, grabbing a bag of groceries and gently closing my mouth. Shaking my head to rid myself of my confusion, I followed him with the other bag of groceries.

I opened the front door, noticing that my heartbeat had become wildly erratic and I was having some difficulty breathing. Was I having a panic attack? Maybe it was a heart attack. Shit, maybe I should call an ambulance.

Before I could think of anything to say, Bucky broke the silence. “I had a rather interesting meeting with my financial adviser this afternoon.”

I blinked. That was not what I was expecting him to say. “You have a financial adviser?” I facepalmed as I groaned, “Duh, you literally just told you met with him today.”

“_Her._ I met with her today.” He started unpacking my groceries, placing everything on my kitchen bench.

For some reason, alarm bells started ringing in my head, but I couldn’t think of why that would be. “So I take it things went well?”

“Sure, except for the fact that she’s under the impression that I’m gay.”

“Really? That’s fascinating. I didn’t want to say anything, but now that you mention it, that shirt you’re wearing… well, look, _I _think it’s great that you are comfortable enough in your own masculinity to wear a pink shirt in public. Honestly, it’s refreshing that a man can embrace that colour without caring what other people think. But just for future reference, some people are naturally going to jump to conclusions, no matter how wrong they might be.”

“Maria told me that she had a very reliable source regarding my sexuality. You, in fact.”

“Oh.” Shit. There _is_ a God, and He loves Bucky Barnes because he is good and pure, and He hates me because I am wicked and therefore obviously must be punished at every conceivable opportunity, because the world is a very small place and even though there are millions of people in New York City, _of course _Bucky’s financial planner would be Maria fucking Hill.

“Y/N, why are you going around telling everybody that I’m gay?” Bucky sounded more amused than offended.  
  
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not telling _everyone_ that you’re gay. I just told Maria. It must have been Maria that passed that information on to everybody else. Are you sure you can trust someone that can’t keep her mouth shut to handle your money? Maybe you need to find a new financial adviser.”

“She offered to set me up with someone. Apparently she’s told him all about me and he’s really keen to meet me.”

“Well, that’s perfectly understandable. Any guy would be lucky to date you, Bucky.”  
  
“Thanks, doll.”

“Look, I only said that you were gay to protect you. Maria is completely predatory, and we’d just broken up. You were vulnerable and I’m not sure that it would have been good for you to get involved with someone like Maria straight away.”  
  
Bucky smirked at me. “It seems to me like you were jealous that Maria was interested in me.”  
  
“I was not jealous.”

“Don’t worry about it. Apparently Maria wants to set you up with someone, too. One of her many ex-boyfriends. I told her that he shouldn’t let the fact that you have syphilis put him off.”

“Syphilis is so nineteenth-century.”

“It’s making a comeback.” He sat down on one of my kitchen stools at the island bench, and I sat next to him. He looked at me. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Fuck. _This is where he tells me he never wants to see me again. OK, Y/N, you’re a big girl, you can handle rejection._ “OK…”

“I’ve accepted a new assignment with the network.”

“Alright.”  
  
“It means I have to relocate to Los Angeles. For six months.”

“Oh.” This was bad. Just when I thought things were starting to look up, it was all falling apart again. _Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry…_

Bucky looked at me as if he was having difficulty finding the words to say what he wanted to. I desperately hoped that he wasn’t going to tell me that he wanted to get back together with Dot once he moved to LA.

“I don’t suppose you’d consider coming along?” he asked hopefully.  
  
“What, to visit you?”

He shook his head. “No, doll. I mean, would you come with me?”

“You want me to come to Los Angeles? With you? For six months?”  
  
“That’s what I’m trying to ask, yes.”

I stared at him. “You expect me to quit my job, leave New York, my friends, my house, my _entire_ _life_, just so you don’t have to be by yourself on the other side of the country while you do your job?”  
  
“Pretty much.”

“What if things don’t work out?”  
  
“They will,” he said confidently.

“You want me to give up my entire life for you.”  
  
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, I know it’s a lot to ask. I don’t leave for another few weeks. You don’t have to make any sort of decision straight away…”  
  
I threw my arms around his neck. “It’s lucky for you that I’ve already quit my job.”

Bucky seemed slightly thunderstruck by my announcement, but when he realised what I’d said, his entire face lit up with a smile. “Are you saying you’ll do it? You’ll come with me to LA?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“Really?”

I nodded, then nuzzled my nose against his. “Let’s do it.”  
  
He grinned at me. “So does this mean you’re going to cook me dinner?”  
  
“Are you sure you want me to do that? I mean, I _do_ have syphilis.”

Bucky kissed me to let me know just how sure he was about everything. Maybe this relationship business wasn’t as difficult as I thought, after all.


	26. Making Stupid Decisions Together Is What We Do Best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Bucky arrive back in New York, and there are a couple of surprises in store for you.

_Six months later…_

“So, LA was all good?” Natasha asked as she sipped her martini.

“Yeah, but it’s great to be home.” Los Angeles has a lot going for it – great weather, celebrity spotting on every corner, close proximity to Disneyland – but it wasn’t _home_. New York is where my heart belongs.

“You and Bucky seem pretty solid.”  
  
I looked fondly at my boyfriend, who was chatting animatedly with Clint and Sam Wilson. “I think it was good for us. I never thought I’d say this, but I think I’ve finally found the one person I’m meant to be with forever.”

Natasha smirked at me. “I told you he was a keeper.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I know. What a surprise, you were right and I was wrong.”

There were heaps of people at the bar where Bucky and I had first met. Nat had arranged a homecoming party for us, and it was great. Tony had turned up, relatively sober for once, although that lasted all of five minutes once he’d greeted me.

Scott and Darcy turned up together; they were still going strong, and Darcy had bucked tradition by popping the question to Scott after only three months of dating. He had reportedly cried like a baby before accepting.

Peter practically tackled me the minute he saw me, and only let go when Bucky threatened to break both of his arms. He was more than a little bit frightened of my boyfriend initially, but calmed down once I managed to convince him that Bucky would never actually hurt somebody that I was obviously so fond of. Peter was very careful to keep his hands to himself after that, though.

Wanda and Jarvis arrived, together with Jane who had ditched Thor and was now, astonishingly, with my ex-fiancé Loki. Apparently Jane was the girl that Loki had told me about when he ‘kidnapped’ me, but then she met Thor while waiting for Loki to get his act together and thought it might lead somewhere. Jane had very quickly realised that Thor is pretty but clueless, whereas Loki has a sharp intellect which he has now decided to use for good rather than evil. She therefore ditched the model and hooked up with the banker, and they were blissfully smitten. I was surprised to find myself feeling happy for both of them.

I’d been mingling with everyone, regaling them with the adventures I’d had on the other side of the country, when I suddenly heard a deep voice behind me.

“It’s nice to see you again, Y/N.”

I turned to find myself staring into the twinkling, deep blue eyes of Father Steve Rogers. I threw my arms around his neck and gave him a resounding kiss on the cheek, before I leapt back in horror as soon as I realised what I’d done. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry, Father Steve! That was wildly inappropriate!”

To my surprise, he just laughed heartily. “It’s perfectly fine, Y/N. We’re friends. I’m glad you trust me enough to greet me like one.”

I smiled with relief. “How are things going with the Church?”

“Great. Attendance is up nearly five per cent, which might not sound like a lot, but it’s pretty significant in this day and age. It’s all thanks to your hard work.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” And I was. If anybody deserved a win, it was Father Steve.

He gave me another hug and gave me a soft kiss to my temple. “I’m pleased that you’re back. I missed you. We always had interesting conversations.”

“Well, now that I’m back I’ll make sure to bore you over coffee sometime.” We smiled at each other.

Father Steve sipped his beer and looked at me speculatively. “You seem much happier than the last time I saw you. I assume you finally managed to sort out the soap opera that was your love life.”

I blushed. “Yes, I did. I finally realised that what I was looking for was under my nose the whole time.”  
  
He nodded sagely. “That’s often the way it goes. It’s the whole ‘can’t see the forest for the trees’ analogy.”

I grabbed Father Steve’s hand, not thinking that perhaps it might not be seemly to do so, and dragged him towards the bar, where Bucky was still talking with Clint. “I’d love for you to meet the man who makes me happier than I’ve ever been in my life.”

Father Steve replied, “Well, then I suppose I’d better check him out. I need to make sure he’s good enough for you.”

When we were standing at the bar, I tapped Bucky on the shoulder, and he turned to look at me with a grin. I failed to notice that his expression rapidly changed to one of complete shock when he noticed the man standing next to me.

“Father Steve, this is my boyfriend, Bucky Barnes. Bucky, may I introduce Father Steve Rogers.”

Two pairs of blue eyes stared intently at each other, apparently sizing each other up, before both men broke into huge grins and grabbed each other in a bear hug. I stared at the two of them with my jaw hanging open, as did everyone else in the bar.

“What the hell are you doing here, punk?” asked Bucky. Everyone sucked in a collective gasp at the audacity of speaking in such a way to a man of the cloth.

To my utter bewilderment, Father Steve just grinned even more widely. “I could ask you the same thing, jerk.”

I turned from one man to the other, my head resembling a spectator at a particularly riveting tennis match. “I’m sorry, am I missing something?”

Bucky slung an arm around my shoulder and gestured to Father Steve with his beer bottle. “I’ve known this punk since we were eight years old, when he was a skinny little asthmatic kid who always started fights but couldn’t finish them. We joined the army together straight out of high school.” He looked at me. “Wait, doll. How do _you_ know Stevie?”

“I met _Father Steve _through the work I was doing on the Catholic Church account. He was my liaison on the project.”

Father Steve smirked at me, an almost mirror image of Bucky’s default setting. “And just how do you know Bucky, Y/N?”

I felt my face turn scarlet. “Do you remember when I told you that I was interested in two guys at the same time?” He nodded. “Well, it turns out that Bucky was both of them. I’d been corresponding with his alter-ego Cameron via email for over a year, and met Bucky in person at this very bar on his thirtieth birthday.”

Father Steve laughed uproariously at that. “Oh man, I should have known something like this would happen to you, Y/N. Only _you_ could be in love with two men at once, only to discover that they were both the same person.” He shook his head at me fondly, before punching Bucky’s flesh arm. “I can’t believe Y/N is the girl you’ve been raving about all this time. I was afraid you were still with Dot. She was a nightmare.”

I couldn’t believe it. My boyfriend, the hottest man in the world, was apparently lifelong BFF’s with the sexiest priest to ever walk the earth. The world really is a small place, and God really does have an awful sense of humour. My life was literally a rom-com. I stood there, speechless.

Father Steve gave Bucky a stern look. “If you hurt her, I will make sure you go straight to Hell.”

Bucky returned his look solemnly. “I’d expect nothing less from you, Stevie.”

I needed a drink. Several drinks, actually. I grabbed two martinis, downing one almost instantly before deciding to be slightly more sensible and sip the second one. Nat and Clint came over to interrogate me, just as surprised as I was to discover that Bucky and Father Steve had known each other for years.

I noticed Bucky and Father Steve speaking rather intensely, heads close together. Bucky seemed to be seeking approval for something, as I noticed a relieved look cross his face after Father Steve said something to him. I narrowed my eyes, wondering what they were talking about. If I found out what it was, and I didn’t like it, I was going to rip Bucky’s lungs out through his nostrils.

Suddenly, Bucky jumped up on top of the bar, making shushing motions with his hands. Everybody stopped speaking fairly quickly, waiting expectantly for whatever was about to happen.

“So, I’m pretty sure you all know that this is where Y/N and I met nearly a year ago. We’ve had a pretty interesting ride to get to this point. We corresponded via email for about a year before we met in person, and when we finally _did_ meet, I knew I had found someone that I wanted to have in my life, at the very least as a friend. But we rapidly became more than just friends. We became best friends, as well as lovers. When she eventually found out that I was the guy she’d been emailing, under a different name, that nearly broke us up for good. But we managed to get past that, and for the past six months, she has been with me while I worked my ass off in Los Angeles. She gave up her life and moved to the other side of the country for me, and I don’t have the words to express how grateful I am to her for that.”

He smiled that megawatt smile at me, and I felt myself falling even more in love with him. There were multiple _Naaaws_ from those assembled.

“Y/N has frustrated the shit out of me more than just about anybody I’ve ever met. She is sarcastic, stubborn, contrary and downright difficult. But I can honestly say that I have also never had as much fun with anybody as I have with her. She teases the shit out of me, and makes me laugh at myself almost as much as I laugh at her. She puts up with my crap, and for some reason, she seems to think that I’m an okay sort of guy.”

I found myself wondering where this was leading. Father Steve smiled at me knowingly, which just made me even more curious.

“There is never a dull moment with Y/N. Every day, I wake up wondering just what sort of trouble she’s going to get herself into. I look forward to doing the most ridiculous things with her, and finding new ways to drive each other crazy, and I never want that to stop.”

Bucky looked at me intently. “Y/N, I love you more than I ever thought it would be possible to love someone. I honestly never thought I’d meet the one person in the world who was meant for me. But I did. And you were nothing like what I expected. You were better. More importantly, you made _me_ want to be better.”

He jumped down from the bar, hesitating for a heartbeat before suddenly dropping down to one knee in front of me. He held out a Tiffany blue box, containing the most gorgeous diamond ring I’d ever laid eyes on.

“Y/N Y/L/N, I love you more than life itself. What do you say, doll? Will you make me the happiest man in the world and say you’ll be willing to annoy me for the rest of my life?”

I couldn’t say anything. Just like the first time I met Bucky Barnes, I had absolutely no words. I just nodded dumbly, before throwing myself at Bucky and crashing my lips onto his.

The bar erupted as everybody let out raucous cheers. Tony burst into tears. Clint pouted as he handed Natasha $50.

Bucky slipped the ring on my finger, and kissed me again. I got the feeling that he was going to do that an awful lot from now on, and I didn’t mind one little bit.

Father Steve grinned at me, before wrapping me in his warm embrace. “Does this mean that I need to clear my calendar to officiate at your wedding?”

I grinned up at him, even as he shook Bucky’s hand in congratulations. “Father, I can’t think of anybody else that I want to preside over things for us.”

The priest smirked at the two of us. “You realise this means that you and Bucky have to attend church on a regular basis from now on, right? If you want to get married in my church, you need to be committed to the faith as well as to each other.”  
  
Shit. I knew there was a catch.

Bucky just laughed. “Nice try, punk. You’ve been trying to get me to attend church for the past ten years. Hasn’t happened yet.”

Father Steve shrugged. “It was worth a shot.” He looked at me solemnly. “Y/N, I’d be honoured to marry the two of you, even without the church attendance. Bucky’s my best friend, and I’m glad that he’s finally found someone who makes him as happy as he deserves to be.”  
  
He smiled at me. “And I’m even more pleased that you’ve finally allowed yourself to be as happy as _you_ deserve to be.”

I felt tears stinging my eyes. I had never felt as much love as I did from everybody in that room tonight. My friends and colleagues, Father Steve, the guy behind the bar.

But the one person I loved more than anything in the entire world was the only one whose love for me mattered. I finally realised that Bucky was what I’d been waiting for my entire life.

Maybe God knew what He was doing after all.


End file.
